


When in Rome II: The Lost Children Connection

by XblackcatwidowX



Series: When in Rome: The Duology [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (why wouldn't there be angst?), Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Betrayal, Death Eaters, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Horcruxes, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Possessive Tom Riddle, Powerful Harry Potter, Smart Hermione Granger, i'll add to the tags as i go cuz i dunno anymore, the bromances are back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-01 18:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XblackcatwidowX/pseuds/XblackcatwidowX
Summary: A year has passed since Harry returned to the present day. Voldemort’s empire is growing, but Harry remains set on saving the man he knows to be Tom Riddle. When unexpected circumstances lead him back down the rabbit hole of the past, he discovers the world to be a far less forgiving place than he remembers, and Tom is a completely different person from the one he left behind. With an empire to tear down and old and new faces to confront, it’s impossible to know who to trust.School’s out.





	1. The Final Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *snore* Wha–? It’s time to wake up? To come out of hibernation? Excellent. My year break has resulted in nothing but copious amounts of notes and zip proper writing. Hahah… *cries*
> 
> Anyway, where are my manners? To the new readers, I say that this is a sequel so I recommend going and reading the first part before you pursue this one. If you are really in opposition this suggestion, then perhaps if you ask nicely enough, somebody may fill you in down in the comment section. :) 
> 
> To the old readers, I say welcome back! 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, favourites and follows during the hiatus (depending on whether you are reading on AO3 or FFN). I received an interesting mix of supportive, entertaining and downright sinister messages (yes, I’m looking at you, BlueJordan09), but all were lovely and I’m sorry that I only replied to a handful of them. I wasn’t lying when I said that this would be a busy year… however, thanks to your patience I am successfully a year 12 graduate. *throws confetti*
> 
> Enough talking. Just a reminder that :this: is Parseltongue.

Quick breaths left Harry’s parted lips in puffs of vapour which billowed before his face like drowning clouds. Flexing the stiff fingers on his left hand, Harry tightened his grip on the wand in his right.

His dear wand still bore the ugly, jagged crack splitting it down the middle. A tattooed reminder of the fateful day he and Hermione had found themselves in a new world.

A new world, a place Harry wished he had never found. A place where he had fallen in love. He loathed himself for it. But the matter was beyond his own hands. Love was something beyond his control.

Harry pulled his cloak securely around his body to ward away the winter’s chill. Dusk was rolling in, wrapping London in long shadows which stretched along the sidewalks like creeping fingers. It was a gamble to have stepped into the open in the heart of London, the place Voldemort was most active, but a gamble which had to be taken.

Standing by the entrance of a dark alleyway, Harry ducked his head, concealing his wand in the folds of his robes. Naturally, he had cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself – it allowed him more mobility than wearing his Invisibility Cloak would – because there was no telling which Death Eater he might stumble upon.

Harry held his breath as a Muggle shuffled past, taking long drags of a cigarette. She took no notice of him, camouflaged into the bricks behind him, and continued on her way. Harry let loose a breath, slackening his shoulders.

That was when he heard the _click-clack-click-clack_ of little heels thrumming along the pavement.

Eyes narrowing almost comically, Harry lowered his gaze to the ground once more and watched as the pointy pink shoes trotted past his hiding place. Immediately, he slipped out of the alleyway and onto the street, a mere shadow, his footfall silent as he stalked the witch into the silence of evening.

Closer, closer, closer he crept, the stout witch paying no mind to the unsettling quiet which had fallen around them like a stifling shroud. Harry allowed the Disillusionment Charm to melt away with each step, right before seizing the woman by the arm and Apparating away before she could so much as shriek. 

They reappeared in a flurry of motion within a circle of trees in the Forest of Dean. As promised, before Harry could so much as blink the witch was hit by a Stunner and slumped to the ground, dirtying her fluffy pink cardigan.

“Cheers,” said Harry as Hermione and Ron stepped out from behind the cover of trees.

“No worries,” said Ron, and they gathered around to stare down at the incapacitated form of Dolores Umbridge.

After a heartbeat, Harry kneeled by her, hand hovering above her for a moment. He closed his eyes and listened for the tired throbbing of a fragment of a soul.

It stung his scar, and Harry flinched.

“Well?” asked Hermione in a hushed tone of voice.

By way of response, Harry steeled his nerves and reached down to Umbridge’s neck, yanking up the chain which was tucked away.

Out came Salazar Slytherin’s locket, humming in cold greeting.

Ron swore beneath his breath and Hermione gave a tiny nod of her head. They had been expecting it, ever since they had forced the locket’s location out of Mundungus Fletcher with the help of Kreacher.

There was another bitter moment of silence, then finally Harry snapped the chain away from Umbridge’s neck and hung it around his own, tucking it away so that it was in contact with his bare chest. The metal was hot and electrified his skin.

The soul of Tom Riddle, speaking to him once more.

 _Harry_. The memory of long, cool fingers on his face. _I never wanted you to be the hero._

With a shudder, Harry straightened, willing the voice away. “We need to leave,” he said. “Now.”

“You alright with wearing it?” Ron looked at him seriously. “I mean, look what happened with Ginny, when she had the diary–”

“It’s fine,” Harry snapped unexpectedly, hand shooting up to lay protectively across the locket beneath his robes. He ignored the shock on both his friends’ faces and glanced away, jaw tense. “Are we done here?” 

Hermione recovered first. “Yes. I’ll take us back to–”

Exactly where Hermione was planning on taking them was not revealed.

Overhead there was a crack, as loud as a thunderclap. Black smoke billowed out from seemingly nowhere, casting them in darkness, and a hurricane-like wind knocked the three off their feet, tossing them across the clearing as if they were ragdolls.

Harry flipped along the ground like tumbleweed, before finally finding a hold on the ground. He hung there for dear life, wind streaming through his hair until finally, it died away.

Blinded by the darkness, Harry could barely see as far as his own nose. Gaining his own feet again, he ducked down low, eyes stinging. Hermione and Ron were nowhere near him, and he wouldn’t call out for fear of alerting their ambusher.

Scrambling for the locket, a jolt of relief ran up his spine when his fingers found it.

The relief did not last long.

Pain split across his forehead, like nothing he had ever felt before, and Harry fell to his knees with a howl, dropping his wand and clutching at his scar with his free hand.

“Harry!” he heard Hermione’s voice distantly but could barely focus on it as the smoke parted before him, cleaving a path which was so clean and bright compared to the black which enveloped him everywhere else.

Once more, Harry’s skull threatened to tear apart from the unadulterated agony which he felt, and his eyes screwed shut.

And then suddenly, so suddenly, it all stopped. The pain dissipated, like a dream. Then a clear voice crooned in his ears, low and cold.

“ _Harry… Potter_.”

A shiver crawled across Harry’s skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, on his arms.

That voice. A voice he had once known, in an age long passed.

Hardly daring to believe, Harry opened his eyes.

Towering above his kneeling form was Voldemort. Tall, thin, his complexion as white as death. The slitted nose of a serpent, head as smooth as a boiled egg and eyes the colour of fresh blood.

A face so unlike the one that Harry had known. “Tom,” he said.

A sneer curled the corner of Voldemort’s lipless mouth upwards and he ran his wand along Harry’s cheek with a tender viciousness, a motion which set off alarm bells in Harry’s head.

“I have been searching long and hard for you, Harry Potter,” murmured Voldemort, his gaze sweeping across Harry, committing him to memory.

Slowly, Harry rose to meet him, breath caught in his throat. Voldemort’s wand, pressed against his cheekbone, felt like a brand of ownership. Voldemort allowed him the dignity of standing, his eyes glittering rubies.

“And I’m afraid,” said Harry, more steadily than he felt, “that you will be searching again.”

Voldemort tilted his head to the side, a curious little gesture. “You will not be leaving my sight again, Potter,” he said, mellow as a song. “Not until you are dead, and it is your corpse being taken away from me.”

Harry knew that Voldemort was merely the shadow of the person he had once been, the schoolboy Harry had fallen for some fifty years ago, but hearing such words come from his mouth still splintered Harry’s already fractured heart.

“You have been angry for so long,” he said, and it sounded like a plea, “but I understand now. It’s me, Tom, I’m here, and I want to help–”

In a movement as swift as a whip, Voldemort had Harry by the throat, crushing his airway between long, pale fingers, like spider legs. Harry choked, eyes bulging, his hands swinging up on reflex to grip Voldemort’s arm, grappling to free himself from the stranglehold.

But Voldemort’s grip was firm and oxygen deprivation weakened Harry. His struggle rapidly slackened, spots dancing in the corners of his vision, and Voldemort’s face was blurring over. 

Images of Hermione and Ron surfaced before his eyes. Then there was Luna and Neville, Ginny and the Weasleys, Dumbledore and Sirius and Lupin and his mother and father. The long-ago faces of Peregrine Lestrange, Ignatius Prewett, Margot Greengrass and the boy who had once been known as Tom Riddle.

Harry had never imagined that this would be how he would die. Surrounded by black smoke, asphyxiated in the most Muggle, most intimate manner by Lord Voldemort. With only his memories to comfort him as he spiralled down the bright white tunnel to the unknown.

Then abruptly he was thrown to the ground and he gasped in air, his entire frame shuddering from the shock of yet another near-death experience.

“ _Give me the locket_ ,” Voldemort hissed and Harry looked up at him, eyes watering.

“Why not kill me and get it yourself?” he wheezed, his fingers scrambling for wherever he had dropped his wand.

Voldemort’s face went even whiter, if that was possible, and he kicked Harry in the ribs, sending him tumbling. _:Do not mock me, insolent brat,:_ he spat.

Harry groaned and lifted his head to the sight of his wand, a mere metre ahead of him.

“I know you remember me, Tom,” he managed, pushing himself upright once more. He could tell that his ribs were bruised as he did so.

“Do not call me by that name!” Voldemort stalked nearer him and Harry scuttled backwards, closing in on his wand, desperate to put some distance between himself and his enemy.

“It was a long time ago,” he pressed. “And things didn’t go the way either of us planned. But you have to stop this, you have to _remember_ –”

“How could I not remember?” Voldemort raised his wand, his eyes pulsing madness. “I remember that night all too well, Potter–”

“The night that you _killed_ her.”

Hermione, her mouth opening slightly in morbid surprise as her body was engulfed in green light, then nothing. Just an empty shell, lying on the ground, a mockery of the bright witch she had been.

“Yes, I killed her,” said Voldemort, and there was no remorse in his voice. “I gave her the opportunity to move – a _gift_ – but she refused, so now she is dead and so is your pathetic father. All to protect you, a perfectly ordinary, interfering, half-blood child.”

There was a pause, during which Harry entirely forgot that he was meant to be grabbing his wand and escaping. He shook his head once, a miniscule motion, and said in a low voice, “We aren’t talking about the same night. Are we?”

“I did not realise that we had the memories of an abundance of nights at our disposal, Potter,” said Voldemort, and there was such hatred in his eyes that Harry wanted to cry.

“Stop playing games,” he whispered. “I know that you remember Harry Delacour.”

 _Please, Tom, remember me_.

But there was no recognition which sparked on Voldemort’s face, and a cruel smile curled his mouth. “Oh dear,” he said. “Is that another of your beloved companions who crossed paths with me?”

For the first time since Harry had returned to the future, he thought that he might hate Tom Riddle after all. “Yes.” His fingers closed around his wand, hidden from sight behind him, and emotion made his voice tremble painfully. “Yes, he was. Harry Delacour… I didn’t know him for long. Only half a year. But he’ll always be close to my heart.”

“Is this love that you speak of?” Voldemort’s pale face hovered there like a skull in the dark, so very mocking.

Harry grimaced. “Yes. And you thought you loved him, too.”

Voldemort went silent, disbelief rippling off him like waves.

Harry seized the opportunity. “It was a long time ago. It was during the Christmas of 1944, the same that you produced a dragon Patronus.”

Something fragile jolted in Voldemort’s gaze, as if that had awoken something in him. His wand remained raised, pointing steadily at Harry, but he made no move to utter a spell. 

The locket, hot against Harry’s chest, crooned a soulful melody to him. _Keeping talking_ , it seemed to say. _Tell the world our story._

“And it was also during the Christmas of 1944,” said Harry, aching, “that you kissed him.”

Voldemort’s eyes widened a fraction – snagged in Harry’s words – and Harry leapt into action. “ _Stupefy_!” he shouted, throwing himself to his feet, and the Stunner ricocheted off the shield Voldemort abruptly cast.

But it granted him enough time to spring back into the black smoke around them, blind once more, and he hurtled towards where he had heard Hermione’s voice before. “Hermione!” he bellowed in desperation as he ran. “Ron!”

“We’re here!” he heard somewhere to his right. He veered sharply, dogging the voices, and he could hear rustling behind him as Voldemort gave chase.

“I am not done with you, Harry Potter!” The outcry echoed all around, ringing sharply in Harry’s ears, and he could feel fingers shadowing his cloak, rippling like a banner behind him.

So he took a leap of faith.

Through the air he sailed, his eyes filled with smoke, and the earth seemed to still around him as he flew. Then Harry slammed bodily straight into Ron and Hermione, huddled together in the darkness.

With a crack, Hermione Apparated them away, Voldemort’s scream of outrage filling the atmosphere.

**_***_ **

Once safely hidden away inside 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Ron backed Harry into a chair where they could interrogate him.

Harry had almost forgotten what it was like, to have two against one. Despite a whole year passing since he and Hermine had returned, he had grown accustomed to it just being the two of them.

“Did he hurt you?” demanded Hermione, first up. Her bushy hair was a mess, poking around such that it could rival Harry’s own, and her skin was blackened from the smoke, as was Ron’s.

“You-Know-Who wouldn’t hurt him,” reasoned Ron, though his tone was sceptical. “I mean, weren’t you his school boyfriend or something?”

No matter how many times Ron was told of their adventure in the past, he never seemed able to fully comprehend what had happened. If Harry had been in his best mate’s shoes, he would have been the same. The whole story was completely mental, after all.

“But he’s tried to hurt Harry in the past,” Hermione argued, turning on Ron. “Just look at what happened during the Triwizard Tournament, if you’ve forgotten. You-Know-Who appears to have no qualms about harming Harry. Maybe he hasn’t made the connection yet–”

“There is no connection to be made,” croaked Harry, rubbing his reddened throat. He was sure that there were fingerprints there.

“You–” Hermione frowned, whipping her head around to stare at Harry. “What did you say?”

“There is no connection to be made,” repeated Harry, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. He was unable to make eye contact with either of them when he spoke. “Vol–”

“Don’t say his name!” Ron hissed, for the millionth time.

“ _You-Know-Who_ ,” snapped Harry, glaring at the ground, “does not remember me. He does not remember Harry Delacour. He does not remember that night, Hermione. It’s all gone.”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed, her face slack. She backed up a few steps, then collapsed into a chair opposite Harry’s. “How… is that possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he extracted and destroyed the memories?” suggested Ron, glancing helplessly between his two shell-shocked friends.

“You don’t understand, Ron.” Hermione pressed her fingers against her lips, staring into the distance. Her eyes were blank, as if she was seeing something which wasn’t there anymore. “The Tom Riddle we met would never have destroyed the memory of Harry. He was mad, and he wanted to own Harry, like a possession. It was an unhealthy attraction. But the memory of Harry… that is something he would have treasured.”

Harry’s gaze shuttered as he listened to the words, and he swallowed painfully. He had come to realise, as horrible as it was, that everything Hermione spoke of was true. In the end, he had just been another item to Tom.

Ron pulled his shoulders up into a useless shrug. “Then maybe somebody destroyed the memories for him. I don’t know. Maybe they were jealous of you, Harry, even if you were gone.”

Harry exchanged a dark glance with Hermione. He would not have put it past Cassius Mulciber to have done something like that. But then again…

“Unlikely,” he announced. “Tom had them all wrapped around his little finger. He couldn’t have been overpowered by anyone.”

“Anyone but you.” Hermione’s voice rang through the room, clear as a bell.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Well, obviously I wasn’t the one who did it.”

Nobody spoke for a long moment. Then Hermione said softly, “Ron, could you please ask Kreacher to prepare us a hot meal?”

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see them share a meaningful look and anticipated what was to come. This was a constant occurrence, nowadays.

“Alright,” said Ron, attempting a bright tone. “We could all do with that. Food is healing, after all.”

He went off in search of the house-elf, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

“Harry.” Hermione inched to the edge of her seat, eyes beseeching. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Harry gritted out.

“You’re not fine,” disagreed Hermione. “You’ve come face-to-face with _him_ for the first time since we got back, for the first time in a year, only to learn that he doesn’t remember you. You can’t be fine.”

Harry did not say anything, merely looked at her. All that was not said aloud could be read in his gaze.

Hermione pursed her lips. “If it’s any comfort to you, this makes our job easier. _Your_ job easier.”

“How’d you figure that one out?” The sarcasm dripped in thick rivulets from Harry’s voice.

“He doesn’t remember you, he retains no emotional ties. Shouldn’t that make destroying his Horcruxes less… complicated?”

Harry stood abruptly. “It changes nothing,” he said. “Just because he has forgotten doesn’t mean that _I’ve_ forgotten.”

Turning on heel, he made to leave the room but Hermione called after him. “You’ve still got it, haven’t you?”

Harry paused. “Got what?”

“You know what.”

Subconsciously, Harry palmed the locket through his clothes. It had not stopped humming since he had first put it around his neck. He glanced over his shoulder at Hermione, tense and perched on the edge of her seat. “I’ll look after it for now,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” Hermione held her hand out for it. “I’ll wear it first.”

“I’ll be fine with it.” Harry made no move to pass her the locket, and Hermione’s expression twisted into disapproval.

“You’ve been using the word ‘fine’ an awful lot,” she said. “You’re already agitated, Harry. The locket will only make you worse.”

But the locket contained a fragment of Tom’s soul, and it had been whispering to Harry since he had first put it on, recalling stories of their past.

Despite the pure evil that it represented, it was something of a comfort to Harry. It was like walking with Tom’s arms around him once more. It was something that Harry craved but did not speak of.

One more smile. One more kiss. One more brush of their fingers in a darkened room. One more.

“Harry,” warned Hermione, sensing Harry’s inner turmoil.

 _Don’t_ , said the voice of Tom Riddle.

“Trust me.” Hermione raised her eyebrows, extending her hand a little further forward.

 _Trust me_. Those two simple words were always capable of pulling on Harry’s heartstrings.

His fingers trembling, he yanked the chain off his neck, ignoring the Horcrux’s cry to never let go. Mutely, he tossed it over to Hermione and immediately felt a little lighter once it was out of his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, her knuckles white around the smooth metal of the Horcrux. “We’ll rotate every day. Ron can wear it tomorrow. That should give you a break for long enough. All we have to do now is learn how to destroy it.”

A year. They had been doing this for a year, and still they had not made any progress in that field. Little progress had been made in general, period.

The diary had been destroyed long ago. Dumbledore had taken care of the ring. Hermione had managed to snag Ravenclaw’s lost diadem the day that they had fled from Hogwarts, and now they had the locket. But there were still more out there.

With one last lingering glance at Tom’s Horcrux, Harry turned and walked away.

He couldn’t shake away the feeling that a voice was screaming for him to stay.

But perhaps it was only a memory. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here’s the anticipated new chapter. Enjoy.

Hours bled into days and days bled into weeks. Throughout it all, Harry, Ron and Hermione remained concealed behind the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place, passing the locket onto the next bearer with each new sunrise.

On the fifth day, the effect of remaining in the constant company of a Horcrux began to show on Ron. He started lashing out unpredictably. It was clear that he was deeply worried for the safety of his family and friends, but it translated into resentment that he, Harry and Hermione had made little to no progress on how to destroy the Horcruxes they had.

On the seventh day, Harry became irritable. Or rather, more irritable than usual. He sought isolation where his dark thoughts could fester and he contributed little to their group discussions. This did nothing but aggravate Ron further to the point that they were constantly at each other’s throats. 

On the tenth day, Hermione was no longer able to act the part of the peacekeeper. She became withdrawn, prone to lose her patience easily, and wound up shutting herself behind locked doors with her books.

As a result, both Harry and Ron retreated to their respective rooms and the three seldom saw each other except to shift locket duty.

Ron and Hermione loathed being in contact with it, but they didn’t complain when it was their turn to wear it. Harry, on the other hand, anticipated the day he could hang the pendant around his neck again and spend long hours in a darkened corner of the house, feeling closer to Tom than he had in such a long time. The time they spent together was not healthy – even Harry could acknowledge that as he discerned the harmful intentions stirring within the locket – yet he still hungered for their time alone.

It didn’t speak to him. But holding the Horcrux close with his eyes shut gave Harry the sense that he was sitting on the opposite side of the room from Tom. Separated by a distance, but still in the presence of one another.

It was a terribly lonely thing.

And yet he rejoiced for this small piece of eternity he had been gifted with.

But after one month of seclusion, everything changed. The universe decided to once again pull the rug out from beneath Harry’s feet.

There was nothing particularly special about that day. It was a cold Saturday, the first one of October. Lying on his back on the hard floor of Sirius’s old bedroom, Harry had the chain of the locket wound between his fingers, dangling it above his face mindlessly. When he turned his head slightly to the side, pressing his ear against the ground, he could make out the clattering of Kreacher in the kitchen. Dare he say that Kreacher had easily claimed the title of most chipper member of the household of late?

Harry sighed, turning his head back up. He pressed the locket in his hand to his heart and closed his eyes, listening to the soft humming which bubbled up from within the Horcrux.

No, it never spoke to him explicitly. But that didn’t mean it never communicated.

Whenever it was Harry’s turn to keep it, the Horcrux would choose the quietest time of day to cradle Harry’s face in its intangible hands and whisper the most haunting of lullabies. Melodies which bruised his spirit and made him want to weep. 

Today was no different.

With the Horcrux humming against his chest and his eyes shuttered against the world, Harry let himself drift up into the clouds. He could almost forget that somewhere beneath him, Hermione was slaving away over books. He could almost forget that somewhere within the same walls, Ron was listening to the wireless radio and praying that Ginny’s name would not come up as a casualty of war.

Ginny.

Harry still loved her dearly, but since returning from the past, he had come to realise that he had never been _in_ love with her. To be in love was such a fragile thing – its name couldn’t be tossed around lightly. Its touch was both a blessing and a curse, and Harry had felt it before. But for a different person. His love for Ginny was familial, nothing more and nothing less. 

He knew that one day, she would understand.

Or perhaps one day, things would be different and they could be Harry-and-Ginny once more. But that was such a far-off future, such a far-off possibility that it merited no proper consideration. 

The door to Sirius’s bedroom sprang open and Harry lurched upright, wand immediately pointing at the intruder.

But it was only Ron, holding his hands up in surrender. “Relax, mate. It’s just me.”

“Sorry.” Harry’s tone was brusque as he lowered his wand and examined his oldest friend from afar.

Ron’s face was tense – but whose wasn’t nowadays? – and there was a weary cast to his eyes. But he seemed considerably more at ease than yesterday. However, it was his turn to carry the Horcrux again in two days, and his mood would shift again.

“Hermione wants us both to meet her downstairs,” said Ron, his eyes flickering to the locket, clasped in Harry’s hand. “In the drawing room. She says it’s important.”

“Fine.” Another short and terse reply. Sometimes Harry didn’t realise the effect the Horcrux had on him until he was forced to communicate with another person.

Ron made to leave, and then paused, glancing over his shoulder, his head inclined curiously. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” snapped Harry, and Ron’s face closed up.

“Right,” he said coldly. “Sorry for asking.”

He closed the door behind him, and Harry listened to his footsteps fading back down the corridor.

With a huff, Harry dragged himself to his feet and caught his own eye in the mirror upon the wall. He hadn’t expected the year to pass this way.

“What have you done to us?” he asked the Horcrux quietly before shoving it into his pocket and storming out of the room.

**_***_ **

It was the first time in weeks that Hermione, Harry and Ron had been in the same room all at once, and nor was there a pleasant atmosphere about the matter.

Hermione waited impatiently for Harry to settle down in the room. Ron was already perched in the armchair by the window, and Harry opted for leaning against the wall right by the door, ready to flee if need be.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was probably (and almost one hundred percent likely) the Horcrux influencing her, but these boys had been driving her up the wall of late. Even when it wasn’t her turn to keep an eye on it, she could sense its filthy presence radiating through the walls of the Black family home, and it made her feel violated.

Researching how to destroy the bloody thing was a good distraction.

“I’ve been so _stupid_ ,” Hermione declared now, slamming the book in her hands onto the table in front of her. “Honestly, destroying a Horcrux is so simple! Here, read.”

She flipped to page forty-four and gestured for Ron to come over and recite the printed words.

Ron gave her a look before sidling over and leaning over the table, tugging the book over to his side. He read aloud, “ _Basilisk venom is extremely powerful, and can kill a person within a little more than a minute at best. It has only one known cure: phoenix tears, which happen to be very rare, increasing the venom’s deadliness_.”

“Unless you want to bake You-Know-Who a cupcake with Basilisk venom in it and hope that he’ll eat it,” said Harry bitingly, “I don’t see how this helps us much.”

“Last time I looked, you weren’t exactly helping out at all,” countered Hermione, glaring at him, “so you can shut it!”

Harry’s mouth slammed shut, his ears reddening, and he glanced down at the floor, crossing his arms. He had the decency to look at least a little ashamed of himself.

Ron watched with wide eyes, and Hermione ordered him to turn to page fifty-one and keep reading.

Ron hurriedly complied. “ _Basilisk’s venom is extremely long-lasting and can cause fatal damage that cannot be repaired_ –”

“Don’t you see?” Hermione was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, her irritation towards Harry almost immediately forgotten again. “This is the answer to everything!”

“Um,” said Ron. “I’m siding with Harry on this one…?”

Hermione ignored him. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Dumbledore wanted Harry to have the Sword of Gryffindor? It all makes sense!”

“Not really,” was Ron’s confused reply, and Hermione grabbed the book out of his hands, waving it in his face wildly.

“Piece it together, Ronald!” she turned on Harry, who had not moved from his place by the doorway. “In second-year, how did you kill the Basilisk?”

“I stabbed it,” said Harry slowly, and understanding was creeping into his eyes now. “I stabbed it with the Sword of Gryffindor. You think that it’s now embedded with Basilisk venom?”

“It makes sense. And if the venom’s long-lasting, then after all these years it should still be potent. Dumbledore must have known this, which is why he wanted you to have it.”

“So that Harry can challenge You-Know-Who to a good old-fashioned swordfight?” Ron raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t seem likely, ‘Mione. What does any of this have to do with the Horcruxes?”

“Absolutely everything!” Hermione began pacing the floor. “How did Dumbledore destroy the ring? I’d be willing to bet he used the sword, seeing as it was kept in the Headmaster’s Office. And he willed it to Harry, so that the next Horcruxes could be destroyed by it also.”

Hermione met Harry’s eye across the room. Harry’s face was drained of colour and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Okay, fine,” said Ron impatiently. “Say that what you’re telling us is true. I can see one tiny problem – none of us know where the Ministry has even hidden the sword!”

“That would be a fair point,” said Hermione, “if we were looking for the sword.”

Ron threw his hands into the air in disbelief. “So now we’re _not_ looking for the sword? Make up your mind!”

“What we’re _looking_ for,” said Hermione, meeting first Ron’s gaze and then Harry’s, “is a Basilisk fang.”

Ron opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Harry’s face was expressionless – he had been expecting this.

“You destroyed the diary Horcrux with a fang,” continued Hermione, looking at Harry imploringly, “and we know where to find more. This can be done!”

Harry pulled his shoulders up into a loose shrug, his mouth twisting to the side. “How do you propose we snuck into Hogwarts? We can’t well waltz in there – they’ve got maximum security nowadays.”

“Perhaps,” said Ron slowly, frowning, “we could send a message to the remaining DA members, and you, Harry, could give them directions on how to enter the Chamber.”

Harry, however, was set on acting the pessimist.

“You have to speak Parseltongue to enter,” he said coolly. He unfolded his arms and stuck his hand into his pocket, where Hermione could see his fingers forming a fist.

Quirking an eyebrow up, she said, “Send a voice recording of yourself, then.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Harry. “You’re perfectly aware that the Death Eaters would check whatever owls carry into Hogwarts.”

Ron stepped in front of Hermione, affronted. “Don’t you start using that tone on her,” he told Harry, which only earned him a sneer.

Hermione rested a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder, and Ron immediately relaxed into her touch.

They had all been so tense, it was impossible to work like this. But now that she had gained some footing, Hermione hoped that everybody could finally calm down a little.

“That’s why we won’t be sending an owl,” she said to Harry, maintaining what she hoped was a steady voice. “We’ll use a messenger spell. I’ve been practicing so I’m sure I can manage one.”

Once again, Harry’s jaw worked as he searched from some hole in the plan. This time, he couldn’t find one. Messengers spells had been invented by Dumbledore himself, after all, and only members of the Order were able to cast them – this way, the recipient could always be sure that it was genuine. Both the Patronus and the voice of the caster made it easy enough to identify who the message was coming from. It was a genius invention, in Hermione’s opinion.

Clearly, Harry had mixed thoughts about it.

His eyes were dark as he stared at Hermione, and she could almost hear the cogs and gears whirling in his head as he considered the whole matter.

“Why are you holding back?” demanded Ron. “What’s there to think about? Don’t you _want_ to defeat You-Know-Who?”

It was the wrong question to ask.

“I don’t know!” Harry spat, then looked taken aback by his own words.

Ron gazed at him, horrified. “What?” he whispered. 

Harry refused to meet anybody’s eye as he repeated in a softer tone, “I don’t know.”

A headache was beginning to pound inside Hermione’s skull. She leaned back against the table by her side and covered her face with her hands, drawing deep breaths in, pushing deep breaths out.

She had been expecting and dreading this confession for a while.

Ron stumbled a few steps backwards, fell back into his armchair. “You can’t be serious,” he said, and his voice was awfully loud in that room.

“I don’t know,” said Harry, and his voice was small, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting his confession. “I just don’t know anymore, Ron.”

Hermione uncovered her eyes, directed a firm stare on Harry. “Give me the Horcrux, Harry,” she said.

Harry backed closer to the doorway. “Why?” he asked defensively.

“You wouldn’t be saying this if you hadn’t spent so much time with it.” Hermione shook her head. “I should have known that it would affect you this badly. It’s Tom Riddle’s _soul_ , for God’s sake. Please, Harry. Give it to me. I’ll put it away so that we can all speak with clear heads for once.” 

“Put it away?” Harry gave a derisive laugh. “Why didn’t you _put it away_ in the first place, if that was an option?”

Hermione straightened her shoulders. “Because there’s only one safe place for it to go, and the diadem is already there. I didn’t want to risk putting two Horcruxes together, just in case they could _communicate_ or whatnot. I thought that we were all strong enough to handle the locket ourselves. But I’ll put it with the diadem now – it’s a risk we’ll have to take, I suppose.”

Harry jolted, as if she had slapped him across the face. “We _are_ strong enough to handle it,” he argued, and Hermione gave a soft smile.

“Not all of us,” she said.

Harry’s face froze, he stared at her as if wounded. Then he murmured, “After all we’ve been through?”

“After all we’ve been through,” returned Hermione, “you should respect my judgement.”

Harry remained as still as a statue for a few heartbeats longer, then he drew his hand out of his pocket, revealing the locket, its chain wrapped around his fingers.

“Fine,” he said heavily. “Take him.” 

He tossed the locket and it arced up into the air, glimmering in the dim light. Hermione caught it and rested it upon the tabletop beside her. “ _It_ ,” she corrected gently.

Harry looked as if there was something else he very much wanted to say, but ultimately turned on silent heel and left the room.

“Where are you going to put it?” asked Ron quietly, and Hermione turned to face him, weary from the day’s trials.

“Inside my bag,” she said. “As simple as that. But please, Ron, don’t… don’t tell Harry where it is. I worry about him.”

“If you say so.” Ron stood and hesitantly wrapped his arms around Hermione.

She gave a small sigh, allowing herself the support of his lanky frame.

“D’you think Harry’ll come around?” asked Ron, his arms warm around her waist. “Because if he doesn’t, I close my eyes and I imagine… I imagine a world where You-Know-Who has won. Which he has, as soon as Harry gives in.”

Hermione tightened her hold on him, stared with empty eyes at the ground. She wouldn’t close them, for fear of seeing the same sight as Ron. “Everything will turn out alright,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. “In the end.” 

**_***_ **

Dinner that night, six hours after their discord, was as tense an affair as ever.

Both Hermione and Ron watched Harry the entire time. Hermione’s gaze was both expressionless and firm, as if she was attempting to psyche him out. Ron kept staring like he was a particularly exotic beetle in a glass display. Harry had been expecting this change in behaviour. It wasn’t even unreasonable on their part – Harry was fully aware of the implication of his earlier words, and it was not good.

Hermione and Ron sat together on one side of the extensive Black family dining table, Harry opposite them as they picked at their steak and kidney pies. The meal with rich and hearty – Harry gathered this from the delicious aromas – but ever since returning from 1945, food had tasted like ash in his mouth.

Eating became a chore to maintain his strength for the task of Horcrux hunting which Dumbledore had set. Harry wondered whether his reaction to food was caused by their time-travel woes, but Hermione didn’t appear to suffer from the same symptoms as him. She and Ron ate with gusto (Ron more so), and consequently Harry had not brought his troubles to the table.

They already had so much to worry about.

When he couldn’t stomach the silence any longer, Harry dropped his fork with a clatter and said, “What’s the plan?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up – she had not been expecting him to be the one to break the rigid barrier between them. “Plan?” she asked.

“Plan of action, plan of attack. You know.” Harry fought to keep his patience.

It was impossible to miss the look that Hermione and Ron shared.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“So, you’re alright with going along with this?” asked Hermione. “Just earlier today, you were saying that…”

“I know what I said.” Harry diverted his gaze. “And I’d be lying through my teeth if I told you that I didn’t mean it. But I’m… this doesn’t mean that I’m going to give up. I want a world rid of Volde– of You-Know-Who just as much as you two. But I still –” he abruptly choked off, his emotions jamming into a painful lump in his throat.

Hermione sat back, folding her arms. “But you’re still in love with Tom Riddle.” Her tone was bland.

“Love?” Harry gave an anguished laugh. “You and I both know that I’m not in love with him. I may have once been, but he betrayed me and I’m not stupid enough to forgive him for that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s like… it’s like there’s still a shadow of what I had once felt, lingering in my chest. I don’t love Tom, and I especially don’t love You-Know-Who. But I still… I still _feel_ something for him, and I can’t _explain_ it.” Frustrated with his own inability to communicate with words, Harry turned his gaze back to his two companions.

Hermione’s eyes were boring into him. 

Ron was staring at his hands, something akin to shame flickering across his face. “I can never understand,” he said hoarsely, “why it is that you always have the worst of luck.”

It was the closest thing to understanding that Harry would get from Ron. His lips twisting into a sort of grimace, Harry shrugged and looked away again.

At long last Hermione announced, “Well, if you’re not prepared to give up, then that’s a good place to start. Neither Ron nor I could ask for anything more from you.”

Grateful for the ready acceptance, Harry dipped his head into a miniscule nod.

“Now,” continued Hermione, already pressing into the next issue on hand, “we haven’t properly sat down to discuss our next step forward. Not since…”

“Since we got the locket,” offered Ron. “I think we’ve been out of business for too long, if you ask me, and it’s about time we hit the road again.”

Hermione didn’t smile, and he reached out to lace his long, freckled fingers through hers, perhaps an unconscious gesture.

An unconscious gesture which Hermione mirrored precisely.

Harry’s eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead, surprised enough to forget his own problems momentarily. 

It appeared that his two oldest friends had finally pulled their heads out of their arses and seen the light. The thought was amusing for a split second, and Harry almost smiled, but then he remembered his own perpetual loneliness.

“Ginny, Luna and Colin, right?” he said abruptly, and Hermione and Ron jumped, pulling away from each other.

“What about them?” asked Hermione, uncharacteristically vacuous. Harry was tempted to roll his eyes at his friends’ flustered states.

Once they came to themselves, it was ultimately decided that Ginny Weasley would be their Hogwarts contact. They concluded that Luna would lose the Basilisk fangs after retrieving them and claim that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack had taken them; Colin, on the other hand, was likely to the slip over and give himself concussion in the Chamber before he managed to achieve the objective. Ginny was their safest bet – as much as Ron disliked that.

“It’s unfair to ask her to return to that place,” he argued. “I mean, she nearly died there!”

“Nothing about this situation is fair,” Hermione reasoned, “and at this point in time, we’ve all got to make our sacrifices. Ginny’s strong, she’s capable, and she can refuse the task if she wants to. I’ll make that clear in my message to her.”

“If she refuses – and all the others, too,” said Ron, “then what?”

It seemed to Harry that for once, Hermione was at a loss for words. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence during which the three considered the near impossible feat of theirs before Ron managed weakly, “One bridge at a time then, eh?”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, giving what was obviously an attempt at an enthused nod of her head. It wasn’t fooling anyone. There was a pregnant pause in which they returned to their half-eaten dinners, then Hermione dropped her cutlery with a clatter and stood. “I’ll go draft a letter for our messenger spell.”

It sounded as if she were choking on a lump of gristle from their meal. She all but fled the room. 

“You know,” remarked Ron as the door slammed shut behind her, “you really need to break this habit of yours.”

His tone wasn’t accusatory but Harry’s hackles still rose.

“What habit?” he barked.

“Shutting us out, trying to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Wearily, Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Look, mate, these past few weeks have been tough. We’re all on edge, but can we try to calm down for a few minutes? You’re my best mate, but I haven’t been here for you even though you’ve been suffering. I’ve just been so… _angry_. With everything, everyone. This whole world, it’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Harry simply stared at his redheaded friend, temporarily unsure of what to say.

When he was met by silence, the beseeching light melted away from Ron’s eyes and Harry could actually see the defensive walls springing back into place.

His face flushing, Ron lowered his gaze to the table. “I know I’m shitty at these _feelings_ talks, but I just wanted to say that I’m sorry and I’ll try harder to be here for you and ‘Mione. I just hope that you could try to reciprocate that a bit, too. And I–”

Apparently too mortified to manage anymore words, Ron’s mouth snapped shut and he lurched to his feet, no doubt to make his own flighty exit.

“I’m sorry as well.” Harry’s words were so soft, they could have easily been overlooked if the room hadn’t been as silent as a grave. He met Ron’s gaze, no longer attempting to hide the exhaustion in his own eyes. A vulnerability he so rarely allowed himself. “I’m sorry for disappointing you both.”

Unspoken words hovered between them, but that was all Ron needed to slump back down again, covering his mouth with his hand. “What has happened to us?” he murmured. “Hermione, You-Know-Who’s schoolyard nemesis. You, his ex-boyfriend. Me…”

“A perpetually angry person?” offered Harry, and then started laughing. Within seconds they were both doubled over, the air ripe with hysterical laughter, and Harry leaned his cheek against the tabletop, his voice trickling away and tears beginning to blur the room.

He lifted his head again, blinking hard to clear his vision. “Say, Ron,” he began, quiet once more. “Do you actually believe us?”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Believe that we actually were stranded in the past for half a year.” Harry smirked to himself – even to him it seemed an unlikely story when he heard it aloud. “You-Know-Who didn’t believe me. Why should you?”

It sent a sharp jolt through his heart and the smirk abruptly melted from his face. Tom, no, Voldemort didn’t believe him. Which still begged the question – _why_?

“I believe you because, well…” Ron pulled his shoulders up into a helpless sort of shrug. “Because you two are my friends.”

Harry smiled wryly, bitterly. “That doesn’t change the fact that we could just be totally bonkers.”

“You’re not bonkers,” said Ron, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “But on the off chance that you are, then I wouldn’t miss out on the ride for the world.”

He grinned at Harry and Harry grinned back.

A long year had passed and they had finally reached an understanding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry be feelin’ single AF at the moment. Shout out to all the single pringles reading haha. And please note, the words from the book about Basilisk venom are not my own and are taken from Harry Potter Wiki.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that after this chapter, we’re actually going to get somewhere. Please put up with Harry being angsty a little bit longer!

Determined to renew some of the normality in their lives without a Horcrux hanging over their heads, Harry and Ron took to playing games of Wizard’s Chess and Exploding Snap in the kitchen. Ron won ninety percent of the time but that hardly bothered Harry. His head was rarely in the game anyway. He much preferred sitting back and memorising the scenery around him. 

There was Hermione, poring over books across the room from them. A weariness remained in her eyes from their misadventures, but at least her shoulders weren’t so stiff anymore. Returning to the future had alleviated some of the burden she clearly felt. 

On the opposite side of the table from Harry was Ron, his brow furrowing as he assessed the chessboard. Not for the first time, Harry was grateful that Ron had spent that night in the Hospital Wing a year ago. He was glad that one of them had been spared these unnecessary scars.

Then there was Kreacher, clattering around with various copper saucepans on the stove. The old house-elf’s attitude had drastically changed towards the three newest members of the Black household ever since he had been gifted with Regulus Black’s faux locket. He had cleaned up both himself and their living quarters, and was now whistling a jaunty tune as he pottered about the kitchen. Mechanically, Harry’s eyes attached to the locket bouncing on Kreacher’s skinny chest and unbidden memories of Tom snaked into his thoughts, twisting like vines of poison ivy. 

_No_.

Harry broke his gaze away from the locket, returning to the game of chess.

He couldn’t remember the last time life had been this uneventful as they waited for a response from Ginny. This short period of time was one he would use for healing.

If only the universe would be so kind to him for once.

Ron had barely uttered the words, “Knight to–” when a silvery-blue globe shimmered into existence before their very eyes. It unfurled its layers, like a butterfly spreading its wings, until there was a scintillating mare standing before them, lifting its proud gaze. Even Kreacher paused in his activities to listen. 

“ _Sorry I took so long to reply_ ,” came Ginny’s voice. Her Patronus’ mouth did not move yet the words were clear as daylight. “ _I took a little while to get the messenger spell fully functioning. Now, straight to the point – is there even a question as to whether I’ll do it? Of course I’m going to. Curfew has been shifted to nine in the evening, so I’ll be waiting in the second floor girls’ lavatory at ten o’clock sharp._ ”

The mare dipped its head briefly before melting away as suddenly as it had appeared.

Kreacher returned to banging a pot around.

The game forgotten, Ron stood.

“Great,” he said, relief and sarcasm in his voice evenly balanced. “She’d better not get caught or I’ll… I’ll…” momentarily tongue-tied, he finally managed to wrangle up the words, “Strangle her.”

“You may not have to,” murmured Harry, earning a sharp glance in return.

“She’ll be smarter than that.” Hermione closed the book she had been consulting. Her eyes betrayed her unease. “It’s all planned it all out. Messenger spells for quick communication. We can never send an owl into Hogwarts, but with the correct timing, they can send an owl out with the Basilisk fangs. But first, in order to reach the lavatory, she must exit the dormitory at precisely the right time to avoid the patrols – this I’m sure she already knows. Late night wanderings are practically encoded in a her DNA. What’s important is that your messenger spell works properly, Harry, otherwise Ginny will be as good as stranded. Your timing must be impeccable, too, so perhaps you should record your message at five minutes to ten, just to ensure that you–”

“Hermione,” said Harry. She was rambling, a tell-tale sign that her nerves were finally getting to her. “Calm down. I’m not going to strand Ginny.”

Hermione’s mouth was still hanging open, and she shut it quickly, shook her head.

“Of course you’re not going to, I was just making sure…”

Something about her tone made Harry feel the need to justify himself. “I’ve practiced before,” he added, defensive.

“All will work out, master,” croaked Kreacher, snapping his fingers. “But first, teatime.”

Harry and Ron’s chessboard scooted across the table and in its place slid a tall porcelain teapot, complete with three matching teacups. A tray of scones and finger sandwiches followed, and Harry smothered down an overwhelming urge to laugh. Somehow, three exiles found themselves seated in a warm kitchen, soup bubbling in a pot on the stove, enjoying tea while a Dark Lord’s forces swept the street outside the window in search of them. It was a ludicrous idea, yet Harry was living it.

Then again, which part of his life didn’t seem ludicrous nowadays?

“Cheers,” said Ron, who had warmed up to Kreacher significantly, diving for a sandwich. Not even impending doom could dampen his appetite.

Hermione joined them at the table, placing her book to the side to serve herself a scone.

“Eat,” she advised Harry, so he reluctantly poured himself a cup, watching as she sliced open the buttery folds and spooned in cream and jam.

To distract her before she could start piling food onto his own plate, Harry peered at the broken spine of her book.

“What research have you been doing this time? Who’s this… Hardwin Fjord?”

On any normal occasion, Hermione would have jumped at the chance to discuss her latest perusal for hours. But she proved that this was a not a normal occasion. Her hand snapped out and brought the book down into her lap before Harry could so much as blink.

“It’s nothing. Just a bit of light reading.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow, the blatant lie shining through, but before he could begin his interrogation, Ron interrupted.

“You’ve got to eat more, before you fade away into a shadow.” He took it upon himself to load Harry’s plate up. “When’s the last time you actually finished a meal?”

“Yesterday,” Harry gritted back, none too pleased with the ministrations of Ron. Hermione’s attention may have been diverted, but it seemed there was a second mother hen in the house. Whether this development was out of sheer obliviousness or covering for Hermione’s slip-up, Harry did not know. 

“Liar.”

Grumbling, Harry cut a quick sideways glance at Hermione. She was smiling slightly now, but her knuckles were still white around the book, whose cover she had hidden against her lap.

With a grimace, Harry returned to appraising his full plate. He wasn’t done with her, but the investigation could continue another time. For now, he had to wheedle his way out of this mountain of sandwiches.

He stood abruptly.

“I need the bathroom,” he announced. 

Ron rose to his full height, towering over Harry, and slammed him back into his chair.

“No, you don’t.”

“You can’t keep me here,” said Harry petulantly.

“Watch me.”

There was a long pause. Sighing resignedly, Harry slumped back into his chair, feigning defeat, all the while watching for the moment that Ron would exchange a pointed look with Hermione like two parents handling their wayward son…

As soon as the moment came to be, Harry leapt to his feet and made his flighty exit from the kitchen, Ron’s hollering echoing behind him.

It was proving to be a long day, but Harry had not anticipated exactly how long it would be.

**_***_ **

To Hermione’s great relief (which she did little to hide), Harry successfully directed a messenger spell to meet Ginny at the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. He did not encourage his stag to deliver any words more than the bare minimum (A shy “hello, Ginny”, followed by _:open:_ to be reused on the two doorways which would stand in her way).

To Ginny, it had been a year since they had last seen each other. To Harry, it had been closer to two. Even then, they had scarcely spoken since their brief entanglement. The connection would forever linger, but nothing between them could ever be the same.

For a tense hour they waited in the drawing room, Ron pacing as he chewed his thumbnail, Hermione tucked away with her book, strategically concealing the cover from Harry’s view, and Harry perched in the window seat, arms looped around his knees as he gazed into a drab sky.

It was a grey sort of night. The stars were muffled by muggy clouds, the moon a dull blur overhead, yet there was not a whisper of rain to be heard. 

Drab. Not a single hint to what the rest of the night had in store.

At last, when eleven o’clock tolled on the grandfather clock in the hallway, a mare unfurled before their eyes, drawing each of them out of their respective trance.

“ _Objective achieved. Sent by swiftest owl. Should arrive in morning_.”

A collective sigh of relief swept up Hermione and Ron, but Harry was unable to fathom a sound. It seemed that his worst premonition would come to pass tomorrow.

Merlin give him strength.

They waited for the mare to melt back into shadow, but it lingered a moment longer, intelligent eyes turning to meet Harry’s. With baited breath he anticipated condemnation, a sharp word, he didn’t know what to expect–

Then Ginny’s sweet, soft voice murmured, “ _Goodbye, Harry_ ,” and Harry closed his eyes, lowering his chin. By the time he raised his gaze again, she was long gone.

“She’s safe,” Ron was chanting, ringing his hands. The redness in his cheeks looked suspiciously as though he had been clawing at his face unconsciously.

Hermione stood to meet him, smiling tautly.

“We’re all glad,” she said, passing Harry a sideways glance. “Aren’t we?”

Harry gave a short nod, sliding out from the window seat.

“Since that’s over with, I think I’m going to retire for the night.”

He took his leave without another word, but did not lie down in bed for another hour. For a long time, he stalked around the perimeter of his temporary bedroom, lost in thought. If Ginny’s concept of time was correct, a package of Basilisk fangs would alight on the doorsteps by owl somewhere within the next twelve hours. Or rather, a package of murder instruments to be used to gradually kill off each piece of Voldemort’s soul.

It was an activity that he was obliged to participate in. 

“How absolutely delightful,” snarled Harry, kicking at the door and stubbing his toe. Swearing, he hopped around for a few seconds before resuming his angry pacing around the room, all the while muttering under his breath.

Finally, Hermione knocked on his door and politely asked him to keep it down because all of London could hear his clomping about and if he wasn’t careful, he would lead all the Death Eaters to their doorstep.

It was then that Harry was resigned to lying in bed, his eyes wide open as he examined the ceiling with its chipping paint and a crack the shape of a lightning bolt to his far left. He willed sleep to find him, to end the torment in his mind, but sleep may as well have been on the opposite side of the universe for all the good it did him.

The house seemed to be just awake as he. Even with the bedroom door shut tight, the sounds surrounding him clawed their way into the room, through the gap beneath the door and the window which was slightly ajar.

Harry brought his pillow down on his head, almost suffocating himself in the process. His fingers fisting in the fabric, he tried to muffle out the wide-awake world. He was entirely unsuccessful.

An old car trundled by in the middle of the road. The engine clunked noisily and one of its wheels hit a puddle, spraying water across the sidewalk.

The drunken lurching of chunky heels on the opposite side of the street, the tinkle of glass on pavement.

 _Noise_ …

The stairs further down the corridor creaked, a memory of feet from an age long passed. 

The tap in the bathroom leaked, droplets thrumming on the porcelain base of the sink.

_Noise._

A book slipped off the end of Hermione’s bed, dog-earring itself on the floor.

Something tapped away within the walls.

_Noise._

A bale of dust stirred in the corner of the room.

Ron let loose a nasally snore.

 _Noise_.

A voice whispered.

_NOISE._

Harry bolted upright.

Was it his imagination, or had he heard his own name, called out from a distance.

Ever so quietly, he slid out of bed, stepping into his boots that he had left on the ground. Hypervigilant to the fact that Hermione would come running if the floorboards groaned under his weight in the hallway, Harry carefully edged open his bedroom door and toed his way down the corridor.

 _:Harry_ … _:_

He paused by the door to Hermione’s room.

Unless he was sorely mistaken, the voice seemed to be coming from within there.

 _You should go back to bed_ , the rational part of his brain told him.

 _You should find the voice_ , said the less rational part.

Harry, being Harry, agreed with the latter and reached for the doorhandle, easing the door open.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn across the window. His eyes adjusting to the even dimmer lighting, Harry took a step in and nearly slid over on a book stationed by his feet.

Swallowing a cry of alarm, he managed to maintain his balance and passed his eyes towards the lump beneath the bedsheets. Judging it to be safe, he pulled out his wand and whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

The book he had briefly employed as a skateboard was a ratty old thing, thin and with a damaged spine. Upon closer inspection, Harry noted that there was no title printed on it.

With another precautionary glance in Hermione’s direction, he crouched and flipped through the pages, eyes skimming over the sentences.

_A history of investigations into parallel universes… research yields no evidence that alternate timelines exist… only self-claimed universe-hoppers claim to have seen into other world lines… researchers anticipate no foreseeable legitimacy to their statements…_

Harry was very keen to know why it was that Hermione was reading about parallel universes, a subject she had oftentimes branded as ‘nimble-wimble rubbish’ and ‘for witless dunces with nothing better to do with their time’.

Replacing the book on the floor, Harry lifted his wand higher.

His eyes widened.

This was what Hermione had been doing. For how long, he could only guess, but she was drowning herself in this nonsensical research, perhaps every waking moment. She was known for her excessive reading habits, but Harry had never seen her take it to this level before.

The room was a battlefield of paper. Pages of writing tacked to the walls, annotated in red ink, teetering stacks of books, no doubted charmed so that they would never lose balance. Harry was hard-pressed to find single surface which was not occupied by a book.

Dodging between the book towers, Harry studied what it was she had been reading about.

_Alternate universes._

_Parallel universes._

_World lines._

_Time-travel._

_Time._

Harry shook his head. The woman was obsessed. Did Ron know that this was what she was doing while she was locked up in this room?

Creeping nearer to the foot of her bed, Harry picked up the book that had fallen only minutes ago.

 _Tales from Beyond_.

His thumb rubbed along the name engraved beneath the title in silver lettering.

 _Hardwin Fjord_.

This was what Hermione had been so secretive about. Harry pried the pages open and determined that it was only a recent publication, first printed in 1994 in Australia. But judging by the great weight of it in his hands, it enclosed many years of at least one person’s hard work. 

It had paid off, too. Harry had never heard of this book, but a long list of awards it had received appeared on the second page.

 _‘A ground-breaking work_ ,’ wrote one critic. ‘Tales from Beyond _will become a household name in years to come._ ’ 

Harry would have very much liked to begin reading right there and then, identify what all the secrecy was about, but then Hermione shifted in her sleep and Harry was brought back to himself.

Hardwin Fjord wasn’t his reason for being here. There was still a voice within these walls that he had not yet uncovered.

He cupped his hand around the light at the end of his wand, limiting its range of illumination, then listened. At first, all he could hear was the low drone of background noise, this home which refused to sleep…

Then the murmur stroked its way up his neck, gliding around the shell of his ear and caressing his cheek with cold fingers.

_:Harry.:_

Again, it was his name being spoken. Just his name, but it sent raw emotions flooding into his chest, it felt as though he was drowning in it–

 _Where is it coming from_? Eyes wild, Harry scrambled around as quietly as he could, poking his head into corners and between book towers. _Where are you_? 

_There_.

Harry froze in his search, a chill running down his spine on hairy legs. Wetting his lips, he followed the light of his wand beneath the bed to Hermione’s purple, beaded handbag. It seemed to hum in anticipation. He could feel it vibrating in the base of his skull. Harry sent another swift glance upwards to ensure that she was still asleep. She was.

His fingers trembling, he slid to his knees and took the bag into his hands, the material buzzing against his skin. He gently released the clasp.

A breath of air swept out, stirring the hair around his face. A deep, black chasm stared back up at him, the vibrations in his bones multiplying threefold. Now he could feel it buzzing through his bloodstream, rushing to his ears until all he could hear was this golden noise.

Hermione had charmed the bag so that it was extendable from the inside, it could hold any manner of things now. There was no way that he would know how to locate and retrieve whatever was speaking to him.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to.

Like a man possessed, Harry watched as his arm reached into the bag, melting away into the shadows, guided by some unknown entity. When he was shoulder-deep, he allowed his hand to swipe sideways, catching on a burning hot chain. As soon as his fingertips contacted it, the vibrations in his bones stopped, the all-encompassing sound of the rush of blood became muted.

This world full of noise plunged into silence.

His arm began drawing out of the bag again, the chain locked in his grasp.

 _No_. Harry knew what this was, this wasn’t meant to be happening– yet he was no longer in control of his body, he was overcome by such strong compulsion… his hand returned from the shadowy depths of the bag, and Tom Riddle’s locket emerged soon after.

He held it out in front of him, dangling it over the bag. The metal glittered. Then it spoke to him for the first time since it had arrived.

_:Hello, Harry.:_

Harry closed his eyes and shuddered. _:Hello, Tom,:_ he whispered. 

_:You should release me, mon amour,:_ purred the long-ago voice of Tom, almost conversational, the words gliding off his silver tongue. _:Let me out of this pretty prison. We can be together again.:_

But this wasn’t Tom. This was just a shadow of his past self, forever doomed to remain a teenage spirit.

Biting down on his lip to muffle the noise of anguish which threatened to escape, Harry forced his fingers to let go of the chain, sending the Horcrux tumbling back into the abyss. With a fleeting glance at the sleeping form on the bed, Harry swept the bag back into the shadows and all but fled the room.

He couldn’t stay in here another minute. He summoned his Invisibility Cloak, threw it over his shoulders and hastened out the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place and into the streets of London.

**_***_ **

Under the iron fist rule of Voldemort, it was a subdued world that Harry stepped into. Neither wizarding world nor Muggle world were spared and few dared to venture out alone, much less at night.

An occasional car zipped by as Harry drifted along, stepping around puddles, alternating between sidewalk and gutter like an idle child.

If Hermione found at that he had left the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place (and she would), she’d probably make Voldemort’s job easier by murdering him herself. Kicking at a loose pebble in his path, Harry dully contemplated telling her that he had done it to escape the Horcrux’s seduction. On second thought, she’d also murder him if she found out that he had sought its location and successfully found it.

Groaning, Harry slumped against the brick wall by the entrance to a pub. For a Friday night, it was remarkably quiet. That is, the lights were off and it looked wholly unwelcoming. The sign hanging over the locked door shifted in the slightest of breezes, its rusty hinges squeaking. Somewhere on the other side of the door, something scuttered over floorboards. A rodent of some sort.

 _Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch_.

Like nails on chalkboard.

Harry dragged his fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath of air.

_What am I doing?_

Perhaps if he headed back now, no one would notice that he’d left and he could avoid a premature death.

Pushing himself off the wall, Harry started back the way he had come, watching his feet moving across the filthy pavement, his Invisibility Cloak swaying back and forth. A fellow pedestrian passed him by, moving in the opposite direction, platinum-blond hair the only bright spot on this dark street…

Harry whirled around in time to see the man whipping around the next corner but not before throwing a glance over his shoulder, pale eyes wide and alert.

“Mal–” Harry covered his mouth before the fully formed name could escape his lips.

_Malfoy?_

There was no question whether he should follow Draco Malfoy or not. Over their Hogwarts years, it had become so ingrained in his impulses to follow his schoolyard nemesis if it looked as though he was up to no good – and Malfoy was always up to no good.

On nimble feet, Harry tailed his newly acquired target from a distance, noting the way that Malfoy glanced over his shoulder every ten seconds.

 _Twitchy little ferret, isn’t he,_ remarked a voice that sounded an awful lot like Ron in Harry’s head. Harry set his mouth into a thin line.

Twitchy little ferret in cahoots with Voldemort, now. If he was lucky, perhaps Malfoy would lead him straight to some secret Death Eater headquarters. But they didn’t seem to be heading anywhere in particular. It was as though they were circling the city, lost souls with no destination.

At one point Malfoy paused but did not turn and Harry was almost certain that he had been found out, but then Malfoy continued as thought nothing had happened.

The journey was uneventful, minutes dragging out until time melted away and his only judgement of it was the arc of the shuttered moon in the sky. The toll of not having slept in almost twenty-four hours began to take effect on Harry soon enough, and his vigilance slipped.

This was how he wound up in a dead-end alleyway with no Malfoy in sight.

Harry’s eyes widened and he swung around in time to see Malfoy Apparate back into view behind him and cast a spell which tore the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders. It crumpled into a heap at his feet.

“I should have known it was you, Potter.”

Harry instinctively slipped his wand into his hand, raising it to meet Malfoy head-on. He almost lowered it again when he looked directly at Malfoy’s face, really looked at it.

His cheeks were hollow, eyes ringed in bruise-like shadows, hair swept back carelessly. Time had not been kind on him.

“What the ruddy hell happened to _you_?” asked Harry aloud. Malfoy attempted a sneer, but it was half-hearted.

“I don’t answer to you. I think that the Dark Lord will be most pleased if I manage to snag you for him. You’ve been causing them an awful lot of trouble.”

“ _Them_?” Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand as he spoke. “Excluding yourself from that lot?”

“Us,” Malfoy corrected quickly, attempting a thin smile. There was nothing authentic about it, nor anything mean. His lips were chapped and split at the movement. A droplet of blood welled up, a tongue darted out to correct it.

He was pitiful sight, and Harry said so. The pseudo smile shrunk back into a grimace.

“Who the fuck asked for your opinion? _Expelliarmus_!”

Harry may not have been at the top of his game then, but a school year of guarding his back from the likes of the young prodigy Tom Riddle and his gang made Malfoy look like a kitten without claws. 

Harry ducked around the spell, swiftly disarmed him and then cast, “ _Incarcerous_.”

Malfoy barely had time to blink before he was trussed up like a leg of ham at the butcher’s. Pleased with his quick work, Harry levitated an incensed Malfoy to the end of the alleyway where they would not be interrupted. Malfoy continued to spit profanities until Harry dumped him on the ground, winding him.

“Now,” said Harry, attempting to be pleasant about the whole matter. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. And I’ll let you know that I’m handy with the Cruciatus Curse now, though I’d rather not have to use it.”

Malfoy had been attempting to wriggle into a sitting position, his cheek smushed against the ground, but paused at the words. His eyes, still as sharp as ever, darted to Harry’s wand, finding the jagged crack. Apparently, the sight convinced him to heed the warning.

“Listen, I don’t know anything–”

Harry tutted, squatting so that they were closer to the same level.

“Don’t give me that. You must know something. Tell me why you, a poncy little pure-blood, stepped off your pedestal to grace these Muggle streets with your presence.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted up and he refused to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry cleared his throat loudly, tapping his wand against the underside of Malfoy’s pointy chin. The latter remained unresponsive. Harry sighed and lifted his wand.

“ _Cr_ –“

“Well, fuck, Potter!” Malfoy exploded, twisting around to glare up at him, but it was impossible to miss the real panic in his gaze. “Can you blame me for wanting to get away from that madman for a night?”

As soon as the words were spoken, he looked as if he sorely regretted them. But Harry knew they were the truth. He rose to his full height again, appraising Malfoy in new light.

“You think he’s a madman?” he asked.

Malfoy’s jaw tensed, his eyes darted back down, but there was no mistaking that his face had drained of any colour it may have had to begin with.

“Malfoy.”

“No one can know I said that.” The words were hushed, small. 

“You’re just as much as slave to You-Know-Who as the rest of the world,” said Harry, pursing his lips. Then, “How many times have you been under the Cruciatus?”

Malfoy shook his head slowly, gravel biting into his cheek. The fire that used to burn in his eyes had dimmed.

Sighing, Harry helped to prop him upright, leaning his head against the concrete at the back of the alleyway. Malfoy accepted the help with no comment.

Harry could have easily threatened him with the Cruciatus Curse again, but he had a heart. The young man in front of him was no longer the spoiled brat he had grown up alongside. Well, perhaps still a brat, but a damaged one.

No. Voldemort had gotten his claws in this one already. This was a broken human. 

“Draco,” Harry said haltingly. “Tell me.”

“Oh, don’t play at being friends now.” Malfoy cocked his head to the opposite side, levelling Harry with a deadpan stare. “Why should you care that I don’t have enough fingers to count it on? I don’t want your pity. Besides, I have it better than most other low-ranking Death Eaters.”

“Let me guess, most of them end up dead within a week?”

“Oh, Potter,” drawled Malfoy, some semblance of his old self surfacing momentarily. “There are worse fates than death.”

Harry’s heart gave a little lurch, but he said, “I want you to tell me everything you know about You-Know-Who’s latest movements. Anything. Who he last spoke to, what they discussed, where his heaviest patrols are, what he ate for breakfast. I’m not picky.”

Malfoy’s face twitched.

“If that’s what you want to know, you’ve got the wrong person.” He squirmed, adjusting his positioning, his voice dark. “I’m nothing to him. I just happen to be the son of two of his highest-up soldiers. I’m not even good enough to be his fulltime errand boy.”

The sun was beginning to rise, casting long shadows around them. Harry had to hurry.

“He’s never entrusted you with a single task?” he demanded. “You’ve gathered absolutely nothing from your time in his service?”

“Are you deaf, Potter? I believe that I’ve told you that multiple times–” Malfoy cut off abruptly, a flicker of hesitation sparking across his features. Had he always been this easy to read?

“You remembered something, didn’t you?” probed Harry, unconsciously leaning forwards in anticipation.

Malfoy scrunched his nose, eyes narrowing. “I might have.”

This whole conversation was like pulling teeth. Harry sat back on his haunches, leaning his chin on top of his knees. “If you really believe that he’s a madman, shouldn’t you want to help me?” he asked, managing to reign in his impatience.

“It’s not that simple,” Malfoy snapped. “Merlin, I… you know what? I’ll tell you. Enjoy decrypting it, because it makes no sense to me, or anyone else but _him_ for that matter. The Dark Lord has only ever bestowed one task upon me, other than… other than to kill Dumbledore. I failed at that one.”

Suddenly, Harry’s jaw felt a little too tight.

Malfoy hurriedly pushed on – even he could tell that this was a sensitive topic that should not be lingered on.

“He… he asked me to plant a time-turner at Hogwarts, so I left it in the Room of Requirement. It had–”

Malfoy closed his mouth when Harry held up a hand to silence him, mind racing a mile an hour. All those loose puzzle pieces that were jumbled up in his mind were beginning to search among themselves, picking themselves up and brushing themselves off after a year of gathering dust. Suddenly, Harry felt restricted in this alleyway, as if the two buildings on either side were closing in on him and he couldn’t quite breathe properly.

“A time-turner?” he confirmed. “You’re absolutely certain it was a time-turner?”

“They’re hardly the most common of household appliances,” said Malfoy, vaguely irritated by the interruption. “As I was saying, it had some sort of powerful spell on it but the Dark Lord didn’t say what.”

A puzzle piece lifted itself up, separating itself from the rest. 

“When was this?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Perhaps it was the look on his face, but Malfoy chose to not bullshit this time.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I could remember the exact date, but it was sometime during the beginning of our seventh year.”

The puzzle piece slotted with another, just one other from among the thousands, but it was something. It was progress.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, eyes glazing over as he stared straight through Malfoy, as though seeing into another dimension. 

“What–”

“ _FUCK_!” The bellow echoed up above, bouncing off the walls of the two parallel buildings and escaping through the gash that led to the paling sky. Malfoy cowered away as the entire alleyway shook, stones, dust and dirt raining down on them from above. A bird was disturbed from its nest and cawed. 

“What the flipping fuck is he playing at?” Harry pushed himself back to his feet, walking circles in front of Malfoy as he fretted. “We suspected that it was him who orchestrated this whole mess when he restored us to our own time, but had to reject that conclusion. After all, how is that possible if he doesn’t even remember me? We thought Dumbledore and Dippet must have made a mistake, and yet...”

Harry trailed off, appearing to reign in his emotions. Then his head imploded in on itself and he shouted, “ _Why_ is it always _you_ , Tom, who has to try to ruin my _life_?”

Overcome by another overwhelming tidal wave of rage, he lashed out at a garbage tin to one side, sending it spinning. It collided a mere metre from where Malfoy sat, causing Malfoy to jolt furiously, staring at him in alarm. 

“Alright, Potter,” he said, evidently unpractised in the whole ‘soothing people’ department. “Why don’t you take some deep breaths before you hurt someone?” 

“I’m not like your _Dark Lord_ ,” Harry snarled, feeling wild and impulsive. “I don’t fuck around with people, even if I feel like it.” 

Breathing heavily through his nose, Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy.

Malfoy attempted to scramble away but was unsuccessful – his only achievement was knocking the back of his head against the wall behind him.

“Merlin and Morgana,” he began, eyes trained on the wand, his face pallid. “I never imagined that this would be how I died. In a filthy Muggle alleyway, by Harry Potter’s hand.”

“I’m not killing you,” barked Harry, then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to gather his wits again. “I’ll Stun you and leave you here. I can’t risk you following me back.”

Malfoy fell silent, his face downcast. In this dim lighting, his head might have been a skull; those hollow planes of his face did nothing to help.

“Please,” he murmured. “I… I would ask that in return for the information that I have told you – of free will – that you do me only one favour.”

“Of free will?” Harry glowered at the ropes binding him in place.

“I could have made your job much more difficult.”

“I do have to admit that for my first proper interrogation, it went rather well,” Harry allowed, his glower softening a smidgeon. “Fine. I’ll listen.”

Malfoy hesitated, swallowing. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. After a long moment, he let out a breath and said, “If you leave me like this, _he_ is going to search through my very being until he finds what I have told you, and he’ll... he’ll ruin me. He does not take kindly to those who betray him.”

“Is that what this is?” asked Harry, matching him in softness of tones. “A betrayal?”

Malfoy’s eyes met his, and that was all the answer he needed.

Pity swirled in the pit of Harry’s stomach, what remained of his fit of rage drained away. He understood exactly what Malfoy wanted.

Malfoy saw the resolve form on his face, expelled a small breath of air, his stiff shoulders slumping.

“Thank you,” he breathed as Harry brought his wand back up, directed it between his eyebrows.

They weren’t friends. They never would be. But in that moment, an old bond stirred.

Before Harry could cast the spell, his time-honoured enemy began laughing, the kind of laughter that causes tears to well up in your eyes, your frame wracking almost painfully. Harry waited, allowing him this luxury of laughter.

“You know,” remarked Malfoy, finally calming himself. “I’m going to tell you something since I won’t hate myself later for saying it.”

Harry cocked his head inquisitively, waiting for the declaration. Malfoy lifted his chin haughtily, though he was sniffling, a shadow of his past self. But it was the best he could do, and Harry respected that.

“I really,” said Malfoy, “ _really_ wish that you had shook my hand that day.”

Harry pinched his lips together, holding back a bittersweet smile. So this was where it ended for them. At the beginning.

“Perhaps I would have,” he said. “If things had been different.”

Malfoy smirked before turning his face skyward.

“See you around, scarhead.” 

“Sure thing, ferret.” Harry drew in a deep breath, grip tightening on his wand, and whispered, “ _Obliviate_.” 

Malfoy’s face slackened as all his memories of this revolutionary encounter whispered up and away, untethered from his body and drifting away.

Harry turned and walked away as they meandered lazily around him, like tired birds in flight.

He would forever remember that Draco Malfoy was the catalyst that brought about the beginning of the new world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who saw my update on AO3 (which I have now deleted), my computer has been repaired and is back in my possession, so here I am. Again, I’m sorry for the wait!
> 
> I have an important notice – don’t worry, I’m not announcing my impending death or anything else which will throw a spanner in the works (again). For the first time, I’m on the lookout for a beta. I’ve never beta-ed or had a beta, but I have finally swallowed my pride and realised that a second brain and pair of eyes would be useful. I don’t expect you to stick around forever, if you get bored of me just let me know and I’ll put this message up again. I swear I won’t get offended.   
> If you’re thinking, what’s in it for me, I shall list the benefits. Uh, obviously the pleasure of my company, being on semi-personal terms and the privilege of being able to hassle me for new chapters by non-anonymous means.   
> If I’ve swayed you with my obvious charisma and you’re interested in joining me behind the scenes, please contact me at disposabl.e.mail987@gmail.com. As you may gather from the email name (super creative, I know), it is disposable and I’ll be deleting it as soon as I have a permanent beta who will be able to contact me through my actual email. So if you send disposabl.e.mail987 something and it bounces back, now you know why. :)

12 Grimmauld Place was as silent as a grave when Harry returned, enveloped in the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione and Ron had not yet risen, despite the sun now climbing into the sky. He could barely believe his luck as he shut the front door quietly and removed the cloak, making for the staircase. He could make up a story about how he encountered Malfoy at a different time, then he’d never have to reveal the truth behind his late-night wandering.

Harry placed a foot on the bottom step. It gave an ear-piercing shriek.

He winced, glancing down at the stair then back up again. The only problem was when his gaze returned to the top of the staircase, two very angry figures had appeared. One lanky wizard and one witch whose bushy hair had bristled up like an indignant potato brush. 

Fuck. 

“Where have you been?” demanded Hermione shrilly, storming down to meet him. Ron tailed her, his face uncharacteristically grave.

“No–” Harry’s voice cracked and he grimaced, surreptiously whipping the Invisibility Cloak behind his back. “Nowhere.”

He backed down to the ground floor, keeping it hidden from sight.

Hermione stalked after him, hands braced on her hips and eyes flashing.

“Don’t lie to us!” she warned, her voice impossibly high. “We’ve been up for an hour, we thought you’d been taken or worse–”

“You really think that I could be snatched like an infant from a crib?” retorted Harry, mildly offended. 

“Your bed was stone cold! You’d been gone all _night_!” Hermione all but shrieked. “What was I meant to think?”

“I couldn’t sleep, I just stepped out the door to get some air– _hey_!”

Someone had yanked the Invisibility Cloak from his hands. Ron. He had circled around Harry without his notice.

“Stepped out the door to get some air with this?” asked Ron, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “Give us some credit, mate. Now, would you mind telling us the truth?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth silently for a moment, alternating his gaze between his two friends. Hermione was looking rather pink in the face, Ron’s was solemn.

“I–” Harry sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair in his now flustered state. “Fine, I’ll come clean with you two. I need some space, alright? This place is stifling and I hate being in close quarters with you all the bloody time.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a holiday for us, either!” spat Hermione, her gaze scathing on him. “You think that we’re enjoying ourselves? You don’t think that I’m going mad, cooped up in here, that Ron isn’t terrified for his family and would do anything to see them again? But that doesn’t mean that we just off and disappear during the night, does it?”

Harry glared down at his feet, fingers curling into fists at his side. If only she’d shut up for a second, then he could just _explain_. But her diatribe showed no sign of ceasing.

“Use your head, Harry! I’d have thought that you’d’ve learned some common sense by now, but _no_ , the Boy-Who-Lived knows best! I can’t believe you were so _stupid_ –”

“Hermione,” said Ron sharply at last. It was as if he had yanked the rug out from under her feet, whipping away that whirlwind of fury. It dispersed around her like mist.

“I was scared.” Her tone dropped to a whisper, the only remnants of her anger the quaver in her voice.

Harry chanced a glance at her. Bright green met dark brown. If he had somehow forgotten the extent of the sheer love and loyalty they had poured into each other the entire year prior, he remembered it now. Staring into Hermione’s eyes, Harry saw a deep, dark chasm of memories reflected in hers.

His heart gave a painful twang. He averted his gaze again.

“Sorry,” he said.

Hermione made a sound and next thing he knew, her arms were a vice around him, his nose full of bushy hair. Harry hesitated for a split second, but then he saw Ron raise his eyebrows expectantly. With a weary sigh, he allowed his body to release all tension, if only for a little while.

Hermione mumbled something into his shoulder.

“What?” asked Harry. She lifted her face away to glare at him. 

“Swear you won’t do it again,” she said.

“I…” he wavered, knowing that it was a promise that he couldn’t keep, not with such a dangerous entity living beneath the very same roof. But with Hermione’s attention fixed so fiercely upon him, he crumbled. “I swear. I swear that as long as the option stands, I won’t leave you behind again.”

His words lowered a leaden cloak of tension back over the group. Ron clapped his hands together loudly.

“Well,” he said, clearly attempting a bright tone but failing miserably. “Now that you’re back in one piece, Harry–”

“–and have been suitably reprimanded,” added Hermione.

“Yeah,” said Ron, picking the ball back up. “That too. But as I was about to say, we have news for you.”

“I have news for you, too.” Harry’s words were abrupt. He was still internally reeling from what he had learned from Malfoy barely an hour ago. Hermione ignored him.

“Ginny’s owl arrived,” she said, eyes hard on Harry and her lips pulled taut. “You know what that means.”

All words dissolved on Harry’s tongue. The rush of adrenaline from the encounter with Malfoy had wiped away the memory that the Basilisk fangs were expected to arrive this very morning. 

“Oh,” he said.

There was a pregnant pause. It was clear that they were expecting Harry to fill in the silence, offer a window to his thoughts, but all activity had died in his brain. Total shut down. A ghostly hush swooped over him, spreading across his chest until his heart ached. Ice cold realisation that he would be facing Tom Riddle – not Voldemort, but _Tom Riddle_ , the very one he had grown to love and loathe – sooner rather than later.

Hermione had stepped away from him by now, her arms rising to cross firmly across her chest. There was a furrow in her brow, dark anticipation written in the rigid lines of her body. But what she was anticipating, Harry wasn’t entirely sure.

Ron pulled his shoulders into a reluctant shrug.

“We can wait,” he managed. It sounded as though he was choking on his words, each catching in his throat before he hacked them up into the space between them. He so desperately wanted to close that rift that had opened between them – this Harry could appreciate, but Hermione had other ideas.

“The longer we wait, the longer we prolong this war,” she said, brushing aside Ron’s attempt at a diplomatic response. “Now isn’t the time to take our personal sentiments into account. But we need to know whether you’re able to involve yourself in this duty, Harry, or if you’re no longer in commission.”

Harry stared at her, the pulse of blood rushing through his ears. The noise flooded his brain, making it impossible to think, to conjure words with any meaning.

The cold light filtering in through a window suddenly seemed impossibly bright, blinding him.

He had known what he was getting himself into when he began the hunt for the Horcruxes, he had known that it would come down to this. But now that he had arrived at this bridge, now that the time had arrived to cross it, he couldn’t… he _couldn’t_ …

He became dimly aware of a hand on his shoulder, of a distant voice. He was underwater, trapped in the raw, still world of a lake. Blinding light shot through the water surface in narrow streaks, cage bars around him, and he could only hear his own heart, ricocheting against his ribs.

He was a child again, shut in the cupboard beneath the stairs. He was a Triwizard Champion, bound to a headstone in a graveyard. He was a believer, watching as his godfather was snatched from the world of the living before his time. He was a student, frozen still as his mentor fell from a great height like a ragdoll.

He was just a boy, dying in the arms of his greatest enemy.

But somewhere high above on the shoreline, the shadow of a figure was calling for him, or two, and now there was a flock of them, of all the people he had loved and been loved by. Their voices harmonized, wove together like birds in flight, dipping and diving to save him. 

“–rry? _Harry_?”

Harry blinked rapidly, returning to himself. His fingers rose to touch the hand on his shoulder – Ron – to reassure himself that he was truly here. Hermione stood by Ron’s side, gripping a handful of his robes.

She was looking significantly paler than before.

“Yeah?” Harry grunted, lowering his hand.

“You good, mate?” asked Ron steadily. “You blanked out for a moment there.”

Harry stepped out of Ron’s reach, rubbing his chest as if that could shed the constricting viper around his heart.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

“Then…” there was pause during which Ron exchanged a look with Hermione. “Then what do you say?”

Harry’s tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips before glancing down. He could see that his boots were scuffed, his fingers yanking his sleeves down over his knuckles – a nervous tic that he hadn’t known he’d adopted until Hermione pointed it out to him. 

“I think,” he said slowly, as reasonably as he could muster. “I think that I need to try. Hermione’s right, I can’t let my emotions cloud my judgement anymore. What we’re dealing with is bigger than all of us.” 

He swallowed around a lump in his throat.

A blind man could have noticed the relief that trickled across Hermione’s face – it rippled out of her pores in waves. She turned and started back up the stairs, pausing only to say, “I’ll prepare everything.”

The meaningful stare she directed towards Harry strongly suggested that he should too. 

**_***_ **

The locket and the diadem were sitting innocently on the table in the drawing room when Harry and Ron entered. Hermione held a crinkled brown package in one hand – it was likely that it hadn’t been that battered up upon arrival.

She cast a sideways glance at the two Horcruxes, stationed side-by-side, before reconsidering their positioning. She swept the diadem up and pinched the bejewelled circlet between her index finger and thumb, holding it away from her.

“When this Horcrux is opened,” she said aloud, nodding towards the locket, “I cannot predict what it might do. I’d rather not risk it influencing the other Horcrux and have them play gang ups on us, like some sick schoolyard game–”

“Why not order Kreacher in to keep an eye on it in the meanwhile?” suggested Ron, stepping forwards to relieve her of the diadem. She swung it out of his reach instinctually, her eyes shuttering.

“You _know_ how I feel about giving house-elves orders. This hierarchy which was established by rich old wizards is cruel and barbaric–”

Hardly in the right mindset to put up with her preaching, Harry cupped a hand around his mouth and called, “Kreacher!”

Hermione clucked disapprovingly just as the old house-elf Apparated into view with an ear-splitting _crack_. Harry fell back one step, never quite able to adjust to the speediness with which Kreacher responded.

“How may Kreacher serve you, Master Harry?” Kreacher now croaked, lowering himself into such a deep bow that the tips of his floppy ears grazed the floor.

“Right,” said Harry awkwardly, scratching his head. “Could you take that diadem from Hermione – over there, see, the one she’s holding – and keep it safe just in case something goes wrong while we’re destroying the locket? The one like Reg– Master Regulus’s locket, you know?” 

Despite her disapproval towards this order, Hermione seemed unable to help herself from interjecting.

“You need to be more specific,” she said. “What does ‘keeping it safe’ even mean?” 

“Fine,” retorted Harry, his tone sharper than before. “Listen then, Kreacher. If the… if the thing inside the locket has any _detrimental_ side-effects on us, or anything at all goes wrong while we’re trying to destroy it, you must ensure that the diadem does not end up in the hands of anyone affiliated with You-Know-Who. And whatever you do, _do not listen to what the diadem tells you._ ” 

“Understood, Master Harry.” Kreacher bowed again, took the diadem from Hermione, then bowed for the third time. “It will be safe with Kreacher. It will be chained up and buried under some maggoty bread until Master Harry calls for it again. Perhaps Kreacher will chop it up with a meat cleaver, then burn the little pieces in–”

“That’s not necessary,” Harry said quickly. “I don’t know whether chopping it up is even possible but… keep it in one piece, please.”

Kreacher blinked bloodshot eyes at him slowly, then nodded his head and Disapparated with a clap that resounded through the still air.

Hermione sighed, then held out the package she still clutched firmly.

“Harry,” she said, her voice painfully sombre. “Will you be doing the honours?”

Avoiding eye contact with both her and Ron, Harry stepped forward and grimaced down at the parcel. He could now see that someone had already torn it open, exposing yellow-stained fangs the length of a forearm. Gritting his teeth, he plunged his hand past the crinkled paper and wrapped his fingers around a fang.

Unexpectedly, a phantom pain throbbed up his arm, like slow-moving venom. Harry closed his eyes and shuddered.

Ron pushed forward and gripped Harry’s shoulder bracingly.

“Maybe he should sit out for the first one,” he said to Hermione, but Harry shook his head.

“No,” he muttered, his thumb rubbing against the tarnished ivory surface. “I’ve got to try. I’ve got to try for all of you.”

Silently, though with painful relief flooding the recesses of his face, Ron removed his hand and took a step back.

 _Thank you_.

Hermione retreated with him, her eyes scorching bright, like dark fire in water.

 _I’m sorry_.

These unspoken words of theirs spun around Harry lightly, as if suspended by fine spider web. Delicate, yet able to carry the weight of a thousand sorrows.

The stage was now his.

Harry pressed his lips together, swivelling to gaze upon the quiet locket, perched upon that table. Too quiet. But there was no doubt in his mind that Tom would not go down without a fight.

Without realising that he had drifted forwards, Harry found his fingers lingering mere millimetres above the locket, the thrum of energy searing his skin, travelling through his veins. It seemed to buzz around his mind, bouncing around his skull, filling him up. But unlike last night, it kept its silence.

 _Speak to me_ , Harry wanted to scream, because no matter how furious he was with this man – this monster, this shadow of his past – he missed him.

Tom would be wearing some infuriating, self-satisfied smirk if he could hear Harry’s thoughts now. His soft, pale lips would curve upwards, and perhaps some low level of mirth would reach his eyes. Such a rare sight, but when it did happen, Harry’s heart would swoop and soar, an unfettered bird, and he could believe that this was love after all.

His pulse had reached a brisk rate, keeping pace with the locket’s own internal rhythm.

 _Thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da_.

Was it just him, or was the locket heating up, as though in anticipation?

 _Thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da_.

He could hear Hermione and Ron breathing somewhere behind him, but it seemed as though a great distance separated them. Perhaps it did.

Unable to bear the suspense of the moment any longer, Harry brushed his fingers over the surface of the locket, drums thundering in his ears, and whispered, _:Open.:_

All at once the drumming stopped. It was disconcerting, as if he had lost all sense of sound, plunged into a silent world.

The locket opened with a tiny pop. All was still for a single breathless moment. Then the room dimmed imperceptibly and a semi-solid shape started to push out of the Horcrux in a cloud of grey mist.

A head, a torso, then legs, poised above them all.

Tall and slender, black hair styled immaculately. Smooth skin, high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose. Deep, dark eyes, all too easy to drown in.

Tom Riddle looked exactly the same as the day Harry left him behind.

His mouth suddenly dry, Harry faltered a step backwards.

“Stab it now!” Hermione hissed. “Stab it before it can use its silver tongue!”

He could see through his peripheral vision that despite her words, she was just as transfixed by the image before them, face upturned to the beautiful man before them.

But Tom was already speaking.

“ _Mon amour_ ,” he murmured, and to see those words shaped by his lips again sent an electric shiver down Harry’s spine.

“No,” he croaked, gripping the Basilisk so hard that his hand ached. His palms were moist with sweat. “This isn’t real.”

Tom tutted, quirking an eyebrow elegantly. “I suppose that I’m only as real as you make me. How real am I to you, Harry?”

There was a long, drawn out pause. Harry’s shallow breaths were torturously loud in his ears. Tom smiled slowly, and there was no need to answer the question aloud.

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione whispered, voice barely audible. “Don’t listen.”

“No,” Harry repeated loudly, unable to register her words, brandishing that puny fang as if it could offer him some form of protection from this entity. “ _No_. You don’t know me, Tom. Don’t pretend you do.”

Tom laughed, but his face was set into a mask. It was a frightening image, and Harry took yet another step back, another in the wrong direction, away from his fabled enemy.

“Do you love me, Harry?” he crooned, and his voice was so gentle, but his eyes were so hard. “Because how I love you. I want to tear your eyes out of your head so that you may never look upon another man or woman the way I have seen you look at me. I want to rip your heart out of your chest so that I may keep it forever.”

Harry’s lips parted, but there were no words to say. Tom’s eyes softened.

“But I could never inflict damage upon you,” he breathed. “And I know that this is a requited sentiment. Lower your weapon, _mon amour_ , and we can be together again.”

He didn’t even notice that he was nodding his head until he had released the Basilisk fang, listening to it clatter on the floor. Total surrender.

“Don’t, Harry.” Hermione, her voice weak.

Something rekindled in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered false memories fluttering around his head like feathers in a breeze. He remembered blinding green light and Hermione falling, almost graceful in her descent.

He could not forgive.

“I told you already,” Harry said breathlessly. “ _You don’t know me._ ”

The Horcrux’s eyes shuttered, giving way to the flat black of a shark’s. It lowered itself onto one knee and pushed its face forward so that they were almost nose-to-nose. Not even a breath stirred Harry’s hair and he found himself frozen. 

“You are indeed a liar, my dear,” it said, “a master manipulator, much like myself…”

 _I’m not_ , Harry tried to shout, _I’m nothing like you,_ but with a replica of Tom’s face so close to his, his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth, curling in on itself.

“ _But I have seen your soul_ ,” the Horcrux hissed, its voice garbled between Parseltongue and English. Unspeakable pain threatened to split Harry’s head in two and he dropped to the ground, yowling as he grabbed his forehead, fingers fisting in his hair.

It was enough to break the spell.

“ _That’s enough_!” Ron bellowed, lunging past Harry to seize the fang from the floor. Through his delirious vision, Harry saw Ron plunging the sharp end into the locket, and now it wasn’t only him screaming, it was the Horcrux, a high, keening wail as it was encompassed by oblivion.

For a split second, Harry’s head cleared again. Then he was flooded by a tidal wave of fear and fury because of course Voldemort knew what had happened, and it overwhelmed all his other senses.

Finally, it was over.

Collapsing on his side, his chest heaved in exhaustion and he curled into the fetal position, no longer seeing the world around him.

He hadn’t been able to do it. He had failed.

“What’s going on? What’s happening to him, is it You-Know-Who?”

“No, Ronald, he’s in shock.”

“But why–”

“We asked too much of him.”

An extended silence.

“We never should have done it.”

“Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing? Fetch me a Potion for Dreamless Sleep from my bag upstairs. _Quickly now_!”

It abruptly became silent and when the voices finally returned, hands were prompting him to lift his head, pressing a bottle to his lips.

“Drink now, Harry, everything will work out fine.” The voice was so soothing, so warm, he could almost believe that it belonged to the mother he never had. “I’ll handle everything.”

And so he drank, and as he lost grip on what was real and what was not, he believed every word of it.

**_***_ **

When Harry came to himself, he surfaced pleasantly, buoying up on a soft wave in warm water before breaking the surface to face the sun riding high.

Sleepily, he acknowledged the fluffy pillow beneath his head, the scratchy blankets swaddled around him, the sofa beneath him, and was content to drift for a few minutes longer. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time, and he lazily wondered how long he had been out for. That was before he remembered everything and promptly turned on his side to bury his face in the pillow, wishing he could forget and bemoaning his own weakness.

“How could I be so stupid,” he whispered, his fingers fisting the blanket, tears leaking from his eyes.

By the time he had realised that it wasn’t his Tom he had been speaking to, it had been too late.

The door cracked open and misleadingly heavy footsteps approached his side. A croaky voice said, “Master Harry, Kreacher hears that Master Regulus’s mission has finally been fulfilled. Kreacher has come to return this to Master Harry.”

Harry lifted his head enough to see that the house-elf had extended Ravenclaw’s diadem to him in spindly hands. He dropped his head again.

“I don’t want it near me,” he muttered. “Give it to Hermione.”

“Yes, Master Harry.”

Receding footsteps, the door clicked shut again. Harry drew in a deep breath, calming his frayed nerves. Muffled voices crept beneath the crack in the door, and when it opened once more, he was ready.

When Ron and Hermione entered the room, they were welcomed by the sight of Harry sitting upright, blankets spilling around his shoulders, grinning like an idiot. Ron actually stopped to stare, perhaps questioning whether the past events had liberated Harry from his last few brain cells.

“So,” said Harry in a horrible, hearty voice that wasn’t his own. “I suppose congratulations is in order.”

“What,” said Ron.

“You destroyed the first Horcrux. Congratulations.”

“Enough!” Hermione said sharply. “What are you doing?”

The grin slid off Harry’s face and he stared at a patch of rotting floorboards sourly.

“Isn’t this a triumph for the team?” he asked. “Don’t you _want_ me to be part of the team? Since I was a complete and utter disappointment, the least I can do is be supportive of _your_ successes.”

“You truly think that we’re doing _that_?” Hermione asked, her tone dropping a notch.

“That depends on what you think that I think you’re doing,” said Harry stubbornly, losing all pretence of cheeriness.

“I _know_ what you’re thinking.”

“Then hip-hip-bloody-hooray for you,” Harry snapped.

“You lost me,” said Ron apologetically.

“Emotional range, teaspoon.” Hermione didn’t bother to face him when she said it. “Harry believes that we’re trying to force him into the mould of the heroic ‘Chosen One’.”

“We’re not, Harry, I swear,” said Ron immediately, then grimaced. “Well, _I’m_ not, I can’t speak for Hermione…”

“ _Honestly_ ,” she said waspishly before frowning at Harry. “Well? Is my deduction correct?”

“You got it right on the nose.” Every word was dripping with sarcasm. “Except, wait a minute. It’s not you two who’re trying to force me into that mould. It’s _me._ ”

Hermione opened her mouth, stopped, then closed it again.

“Oh,” she said in a very small voice. “I was a little off.”

Harry gave a humourless laugh.

“No matter how much you or anyone else want me to be the Chosen One, the great vanquisher of the Dark Lord, I know that nobody will ever be as disappointed as me when I can’t do it. I wish we’d never ended up in some time-travel freak accident. If we hadn’t–” he scrubbed furiously at his eyes. “If we hadn’t, You-Know-Who and I would never have had a history. He wouldn’t have dirt on me, I’d be able to face him with my head held high, but instead I become a pitiful wreck when faced by the mere _memory_ of him. I’m–”

His voice broke. Hermione and Ron spoke up at the same time.

“Harry–”

“You don’t have to–”

“Shut up,” he said fiercely. “I’ve got to say it. _I’m sorry, but I can’t kill him._ ”

He tipped his head back to glare at the ceiling, blinking tears from his eyes. Let them hate him. Nobody could hate him more than himself, anyway.

He heard Hermione choke on a watery laugh. 

“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered. “If only you’d stop letting your mouth run away from you and just listen for a moment.”

Bewildered, Harry brought his gaze back to them.

“What?”

Ron was beaming.

“You may not have to kill him,” he said. “We’ve been searching all year in private – Hermione mostly, and there may be another way.”

“But we mustn’t get our hopes up.” Hermione was smiling too, belying her attempt at pragmatism. “We didn’t want to tell you what we were doing in case we couldn’t find anything, but I think I’ve finally cracked the code. At least, the first level of it, but it’s more than we had before.”

Harry continued to gape at them, not quite registering their words, too fearful to believe. Surely they were due to laugh in his face at any moment and scold him for believing their cruel joke.

“What’re you saying?” he asked hoarsely.

Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead.

“Of course, I’ll give you the book, it’ll clear everything up,” she babbled. “Some may consider it a little dry of a read, but I personally enjoyed it, though it did take me a few days to read. It should clear everything up, yes, you should definitely read it. _Accio_!”

She swished her wand and a moment later, a book came zipping into her hand. It was a very familiar book, but Harry was loath to admit that he had flipped through it before.

“ _Tales from Beyond_ ,” she announced, brandishing it in his face. “Here.”

She all but shoved it into his chest. That would surely bruise later. Ron winced on Harry’s behalf, but he barely registered the brief burn of pain. He was staring down at the book, unable to believe that this could be the answer to all his troubles.

“I still don’t understand,” he said haltingly.

“Neither do I,” said Hermione fretfully, “not completely. That’s why we’re leaving. How does tomorrow sound?”

“The sooner the better,” said Ron. “I can’t wait to leave this place.”

“But we can’t let our guard slip in our haste,” she said chidingly, as if it had been his idea to leave immediately. “This will be dangerous. _Very_ dangerous. And we’ll have to pack supplies, who knows how long we’ll be on the road…”

“Kreacher can handle our supplies.”

“Oh, Ron, we shouldn’t rely on him to do all our work. Speaking of which, should we bring him with us or…?”

“Are you kidding me? Kreacher’ll rip his ears off and eat them before he leaves Grimmauld Place for more than a minute.”

“You shouldn’t exaggerate,” said Hermione, “but I suppose there is some truth to your words. Oh dear, I’ll ask him anyway… now, I’m going to pack my books, I’ve got something on the international Floo Network somewhere, I know I do…”

“I’ll get Kreacher started,” added Ron, and they both made to rush out the door. 

Harry, whose eyes had been volleying between them the whole while, finally piped up, “Can somebody _please_ explain to me what’s going on before you run off like headless chooks?”

Both glanced around at him in surprise, having forgotten that he was rather behind on everything.

“How silly of me,” Hermione declared. “We’re going to Australia!”

Ron clapped his hands eagerly and bustled away, muttering, “Finally doing something productive…”

“ _What for_?” Harry squawked, not nearly as pleased as his friend.

“If we’re going to time-travel again,” Hermione said, already halfway out the door, “We’re going to need the help of the author of that book, Hardwin Fjord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you’re interested in beta-ing, please refer to author’s note at top of page. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… this chapter’s pretty long overdue. Yikes. This message is also super late, but thank you for all expressions of interest for betaing, I got more responses than I hoped thought but unfortunately I can’t have all of you! 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was betaed by the lovely Nothinglikeyou.

“Ugh,” said Ron, picking at the peeling skin on his nose and flicking a flake away. “ _Ugh_. ‘Mione, it’s happened again.”

“We’ve got to keep moving,” Hermione said, exasperatedly pointing her wand at the musty old handkerchief they had been following. It froze where it hovered and she turned on her heel, heading back to meet him a few paces behind where she and Harry had been waiting.

“Not my fault I’m the colour of an albino Grindylow’s belly,” Ron said sharply. “Complain all you want, but nobody’s suffering more than me.”

Harry rolled his eyes, taking the opportunity to drain his water bottle into his mouth while Hermione healed Ron’s recurring case of sunburn. Each of them was applying sunscreen at regular intervals, all the while wearing gigantic broad-brimmed hats that looked ridiculous and long-sleeve flannel shirts to minimise sun exposure (not even to mention the assortment of charms Hermione had cast on them), but Ron was simply too white. Harry and Hermione, both of darker skin tones, were having far fewer issues and neither were nearly as sympathetic as Ron would have liked. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have picked it,” Hermione bemoaned, evaluating Ron’s erythematous face. “I’ve told you about a dozen times already…”

“It’s itchy,” Ron said defensively, then added quickly, “You can still heal it, yeah?”

“Of course I can, it’s just unsightly,” said Hermione briskly, fishing her wand out of her pocket. “ _Tempus revelio_.”

A few long ribbons shot out from the end of her wand, fashioning themselves into a set of numbers. She evaluated the numbers with a furrowed brow, her lips pursed.

“C’mon, Hermione,” chided Ron. “It’s already past noon, we need to take a break at some point.”

“But it’s so open out here,” she said, casting a wary eye about them. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

“So cast a few enchantments if you’re nervous.” He was already lowering himself down on a rock, letting out a grateful moan as he did so, dumping his pack on the ground next to him. “Maybe it hasn’t registered in your brilliant mind yet, but we’re in the middle of nowhere. Merlin, I despise this place.”

“We’re a week’s trek from Alice Springs,” said Hermione scathingly.

“Like I said.” Ron rifled through his pack and pulled out a parcel of wrapped sandwiches. “The middle of nowhere.”

“We do need to eat at some point,” Harry reasoned when Hermione cast him a look.

“Hear, hear,” said Ron. 

“Fine.” Hermione raised her hands in surrender. “ _Fine_.”

She stalked off to perform some protective enchantments on the surrounding area, though not before throwing Ron a disdainful glance as he dug into their lunch.

“You know,” he remarked to Harry around a mouthful of ham and chicken sandwich, “I don’t _actually_ despise this place. It’s just the heat I can’t deal with. Tanzania was alright, actually, but I didn’t like _Vicky_ … it’s just that the further north we go, the more I resemble–”

“A tomato frog?” Harry suggested, cracking a smile and accepting the sandwich Ron passed him. It was refreshingly cold, having been kept fresh by several cooling charms. 

As soon as they had entered the state of Victoria about a month ago, Ron had taken an immediate disliking to it – possibly because it reminded him of a certain Bulgarian wizard. 

Hermione joined them, and, having overheard the conversation, immediately said, “It’s not Tanzania – that’s an entirely different country. It’s _Tasmania_ , and the reason it’s hotter up here is because we’re nearer the equator. It’s all got to do with the sun’s slant angles and–”

“Can you heal my burn now?” Ron asked.

Looking increasingly annoyed, Hermione tapped his face and said, “ _Episkey_!”

Harry focussed on his food, having seen her heal a sunburn many times already. He waited for the additional, “ _Pellis praesidio_ ,” which followed a few seconds later.

“Now,” said Hermione, wiping her hands clean and helping herself to their lunch. “My tracking spell estimates that we have another day of walking before we reach our destination, whatever that may be.”

At her words, Harry glanced over his shoulder at the handkerchief, dangling there as if attached to invisible strings and flittering in a non-existent breeze. It was a manky old thing and he refused to touch it for fear of contracting a disease from it. Back in its heyday it had surely been quite fine, crisp white with delicate embroidery around the border and the initials _P.R.L._ sewn in. It was a miracle they had even found so much.

With the assistance of the _about the author_ page at the end of _Tales from Beyond_ , they had made their way into Fjord’s then-hometown, Portland. After interrogating the residents (alongside no small about of bribery in the form of money), they finally narrowed in on a small, rundown house in Portland where they were told Hardwin Fjord once lived. Since it was their only lead, Hermione had cast a tracking spell on it to find its owner and they followed it like puppies of varying faithfulness.

“Besides,” Hermione had said that day, “Even if it doesn’t belong to Fjord, it might lead us to someone who knows where he is.”

Harry had nothing to say to that. So far, the hunt for the author of _Tales from Beyond_ proved to be futile, an impossible quest. They may as well have been searching for a ghost for all the luck that they had. He privately thought that they would be lucky if he was dead. Ron was much more vocal about the matter, and he was saying so now. 

“But it was only published five or so years ago,” Hermione insisted, tugging the brim of her hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. “Fjord can’t be far away.”

“A lot can happen in five years,” said Harry quietly. “Especially these past five years. Wasn’t that book released only months before Volde– for Merlin’s sake, Ron – before _You-Know-Who_ returned? Maybe You-Know-Who abducted him, like Ollivander. He’d be a valuable asset, after all.”

“I maintain that death would be kinder to the bloke,” Ron piped up. “Anyway, we’ve been searching for _weeks_. Dead end after dead end, and what’ve we got from it? All we’ve found to prove that a Hardwin Fjord ever did once live is a handkerchief that may or may not have belonged to him.” 

Hermione sat in silence for a long moment, a furrow between her eyebrows. A bird shrieked somewhere overhead, drawing her back into the moment and she scowled.

“We’ve been sitting still for too long. Let’s go.”

“It’s been five minutes!” Ron protested.

“I don’t care, we’re practically sitting ducks,” Hermione snapped back, throwing herself to her feet and storming away. She jabbed her wand at the handkerchief and it gave a little shiver, shaking itself off before continuing on its merry way.

Without a backwards glance, she followed at its heel.

“She’s in a real mood today,” muttered Ron, heaving his pack onto his back and waiting for Harry to do the same. “She just doesn’t want to admit that we’re right.”

As they trekked through the red earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake and wiping sweat off their foreheads, Harry remained silent. Truth be told, he didn’t want them to be right either. If Fjord truly was gone, then that left them to return to Horcrux hunting, and Harry had already proved his worth in that field.

**_***_ **

The following days were uneventful. Hermione became more taciturn than usual. When she wasn’t doggedly following that manky piece of cloth with Harry and Ron in tow, she was settled a small distance from them, her face stuck in _Tales from Beyond_ despite having read it at least five times, occasionally throwing worried glances skyward. It was clear she was expecting Voldemort’s Death Eaters to descend upon them at any given time.

When Harry closed his eyes, however briefly, even during broad daylight, he could envision them starting as flittering dots, framed by the sun. They would then gradually develop from insignificant sand flies to large black smears, each an individual finger on a hand leaping down to cage them between talons.

It was worse at night when there was no sun to give them forewarning.

Yet there remained not even a whisper that their location had been leaked. It was all too still, too quiet. The calm before a storm. 

Harry had come to rely on Ron’s constant commentary, his wisecracks, and quips, to keep his mood elevated (at least above its default state, which wasn’t a difficult task), but after the drag of several long, dull weeks it was finally setting in – even for Ron – what a truly epic journey this was.

All words shrivelled up and died, save Ron’s occasional complaint about sunburn, and the three of them trekked in silence, fear of what awaited them at the end of the line looming over them.

If nothing else, it gave Harry all the time in the world with the thoughts in his head. Memories of their expedition flicked back and forth, a poor parody of those cheap, cheesy travel montages slapped together in some tween girl’s scrapbook.

It was over a month ago that Hermione first pushed _Tales from Beyond_ into Harry’s hands and he read it through over breakfast, lunch, dinner and deep into the night. He found it to be a ridiculous read, exactly what its title claimed it to be – a tale, and a fanciful one at that.

It dabbled with the mysterious matter of time.

Fixed timelines, dynamic timelines, alternate timelines, paradoxes. Harry didn’t understand half of what was written, it was so backwards and convoluted and impossible to tell which way was right side up.

Despite being written like an academic text and its critical acclaim, even the readership saw it for what it was. Entirely fictitious, theoretical at best.

But Hermione was for one a believer, Harry and Ron the sceptics trailing behind. How the tables had turned. She was so certain if they could find the author, perhaps he could explain things to them and reveal the mystery behind his greatest work. Perhaps they could fix this fucked up timeline so it was never meant to be.

It was a fantasy Harry could indulge in, at least until the dream was shattered at the end of the journey.

It was too great a risk to attempt to sneak through the International Floo Network into the borders of Australia and too great a distance to Apparate, even if any of them were familiar with the country on the other side of the world. In the end, it had been easy enough a job to intercept and Stun several Muggles in the nearest airport, taking their passports – Giles Herman, Poppy Walmsley, and Frank Butler were the unfortunate three – and a handful of hairs for the Polyjuice Potion, proceeding to steal their places on the flight from London to Sydney. Easy a job but less easy on the conscience – Hermione and Ron made the Muggles as comfortable as possible in the airport bathrooms, and Harry left each with as many Galleons as he dared to spare, hoping they’d be able to exchange the gold for the stolen flight money.

Under the guise of Giles, Poppy and Frank, Harry, Hermione and Ron snuck across the border between the two countries and had not looked back since.

Travelling about took much longer than someone like Ron was accustomed to. Growing up in Muggle households meant that Harry and Hermione were familiar with Muggle cars and buses, or simply travelling on foot where it was necessary since Apparition was impossible in unfamiliar territory. None of them were willing to step foot into the wizarding world either, beyond Hermione gingerly entering a wizards’ currency exchange centre to trade in a handful of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts for Muggle cash. 

“It’s safer in the long run,” she reasoned against Harry and Ron’s protests. “If we make it so that we can live in the Muggle world, we’ll leave fewer traces in systems You-Know-Who may be tracking. Besides, he doesn’t seem to have gotten his claws into the Australian ministry yet, so if I just dip in quickly now…”

It was true. Australia seemed completely untouched – at least, from what Harry observed from the outside. Whenever they moved through populated areas he would watch civilians from beneath his Invisibility Cloak, one eye ensuring he didn’t lose his companions and the other focused on his surroundings.

The communities here were sunny and cheerful. Harry caught sight of witches and wizards mingling with the Muggles without a care in the world, distinguishing them due to the cloaks they wore and the quiet words that were exchanged on street corners and behind hands. If it weren’t for these words he overheard, Harry could almost have passed off the events back home as the memory of a childhood nightmare, melting away beneath the warm Australian sun.

“Sounds like a repeat of the First Wizarding War.”

“Reckon it’ll reach us this time?”

“Maybe. Rumour has it we’ll start conscripting over seventeens to head over and intercept at this rate.”

“That’s a suicide mission.”

When he overheard such whispers, the warmth leeched from Harry’s bones and he shivered, clutching the Invisibility Cloak around him as if it could provide him some comfort. If Hermione and Ron were listening too, they gave no sign.

**_***_ **

The trail of breadcrumbs was finally leading to an end.

With sundown upon them, Hermione wearily took her wand out and pointed it at the handkerchief, which was significantly less perky than it had been a few days ago.

Jerking her head at its droopy state, she said, “I think we’re going to find its owner sometime tomorrow.”

“Yeah, a gravestone,” said Ron.

Hermione glared at him, then sighed.

“Gravestone or not,” she said, “this is it.”

“Unless that handkerchief was never Fjord’s to begin with.”

“ _Please_ , Ronald.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, his face glowing with sweat against the golden sky. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed if we don’t, you know, find what you think we will.”

The irritation pulling the lines of Hermione’s face taut vanished, and her features collapsed momentarily before she yanked back on the mask of a stiff upper lip.

“I apologise if you’re waiting for me to lose hope,” she said coldly, “but there’s plenty of time for that later.”

She whirled around stalked off, setting about with casting the enchantments around them. 

“I didn’t… mean that…” Ron watched her leave helplessly. After a moment, he set his jaw and made to follow her.

“Leave it,” Harry said, parking himself beneath the charred corpse of a tree nearby.

“But–”

“You know perfectly well that she needs to cool off before you can talk or she’ll take everything as an offense.”

Ron stared at Harry for a long few seconds, the latter’s face set in shadow, before sighing and joining him beneath the tree, dragging the hat off his head. They watched Hermione as she paused in the distance and held up her wand. She was far out of earshot but Harry could imagine the spells she was casting – he’d heard them so often.

Once it was obvious Ron would not be starting them on their dinner, Harry pulled his pack onto his lap and took out another set of sandwiches. He silently handed some across to Ron, who accepted them with only a small grimace. Any food was better than no food, even if they had been living on stale sandwiches for weeks on end.

“’Mione,” Harry called out and held up the sandwiches when she turned. She gave a nod, returning to finish her job.

Ron took a lacklustre bite of his sandwich, then chuckled a little.

“Corned beef,” he said. “That takes me back.”

They both chewed in silence for another drawn-out moment, the only noise was the chirruping of crickets, a sorrowful birdcall in the far off distance.

“What was it like?” Ron asked suddenly, abruptly, startling Harry from his thoughts.

“What?”

“You know.” Ron stared down at the ground, the tips of his ears looking suspiciously red. “Back in 1940.”

“1944, 1945.”

“Yeah. Then.” He took another bite, passed a cautious sideways glance at Harry when all he received was silence. “You don’t have to tell me if it brings back bad memories. Figured there’s a reason why you guys have never told me anything much.”

“It’s just weird to talk about,” Harry said finally, twisting his scarred fingers around. “It doesn’t seem like something we _can_ talk about. You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning after a real exciting night, or after you did something wild or unexpected? Then when you open your eyes the next morning, you’re back in your bed and it’s quiet and still, as if nothing at all happened in the world? And even if you talk about it with anyone, it feels distant somehow, and you know that from then on it’ll only ever really live on in your memories, you know that it’s been lost in the sands of time? That’s why we don’t speak about it.”

Ron didn’t say anything, considering Harry’s words, when an unbidden, soft smile touched upon Harry’s mouth.

“It wasn’t a walk in the park,” he said, meeting Ron’s gaze straight on, “but it wasn’t all bad memories either.”

“I’m glad,” Ron said quietly.

“What’s this?” asked Hermione, settling across from them, the solemn atmosphere having apparently broken her stony mood.

“Say, Hermione,” Harry said, struck by an idea. “What’s your happiest memory from back in the day?”

“Back in the day?” The meaning behind the question was clear and she huffed. Her face was sweaty and smeared with red earth, her exhaustion palpable. Far from the right mood to play along with this game.

 _Please_ , Harry pleaded silently, urging it to show in his eyes. _One night is all I ask._

Hermione alternated her eyes from Harry’s sad gaze to Ron’s eager one, an expression he was attempting to hide poorly. With a sigh, she tugged the broad-rimmed hat off her head and stuffed it onto the ground by her side, contemplating the question for a short while.

She would indulge him this once.

“It’s hard to say,” she said finally.

A slow grin spread across Ron’s face, evidently amazed he would be hearing some of their stories at last. He shuffled across to sit closer to her, Harry also moving forward to complete the circlet they made. 

“It’s not much,” Hermione began, furrowing her brow as she thought, “but maybe that time you fed Umbridge false information about – what was it again – the Smokescreen Spell, I think? She seemed so devoted to you, too.”

“ _Umbridge_?” Ron choked on a laugh. “You met _Umbridge_?”

“Yeah, she was in her first year.” Harry scowled at Hermione without any real malice. “I’m surprised. You proceeded to immediately reveal me to her, if I do recall correctly. In fact, every single time I did something to her you reprimanded me like a problem child!”

She shrugged.

“Because you were acting like a problem child. But with hindsight, it’s hilarious.”

“Why would you reprimand him for pranking the toad with the pink bow?” asked Ron incredulously. “Merlin, if I’d been there…”

“You’d have had my back, I know,” said Harry, bumping their shoulders together and they grinned at each other, a semblance of the old days.

Hermione smiled at them softly before turning her face skyward. The cognac-coloured sky, the shimmer of the sinking butter-yellow sun shone out from her eyes. 

“But I don’t suppose that’s a _happy_ memory per se.” She drew in a deep breath, her gaze glazed over momentarily, staring into the realm of the past. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. “The day leading up to the Christmas party. I asked that you spend it with me, and I’ll forever remain gad for those hours we spent together. I truly believe that was the last time I ever spent with you before you became his.”

Harry swallowed, a shallow noise in his ears.

“I was never his,” he whispered. “Never really.”

Hermione looked down at her hands and did not respond. Something shimmered in the corners of her eyes, but when she looked back up, they were gone. 

“How about you, then?” she asked, a valiant attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. “What’s your happiest memory?”

Harry’s heart stuttered a beat. His happiest memory was from the same day as Hermione’s, but it was not the same one. When she smiled at him gently, Harry knew that she had seen it in his eyes but would not break his silence.

No. Each and every story in the world was told for a different person, a different audience. The memories he shared with Tom Riddle were not tales meant for this gathering. 

Forcing a laugh, Harry inclined his head towards Ron.

“I don’t know about happiest, but this one’s half decent. On our first day of classes, Hermione threw down the gauntlet in front of You-Know-Who. Challenged him for his position as top Potions student.”

It wasn’t hard for Hermione to miss his referral to Tom as You-Know-Who – she flickered a glance in his direction as he said the words, but he ignored it. It was easier this way.

Ron missed the brief exchange, his jaw dropping almost comically as he swivelled to stare at Hermione, examining her as if he had never seen her before. To her credit, she barely squirmed beneath the intense gaze despite being clearly flustered. 

“You– how– why– absolutely _brilliant_ ,” he managed around his unhinged jaw. “Completely bonkers, of course, but brilliant nonetheless…” 

“Thank you, Ronald,” she said in a dignified tone.

“Merlin’s floppy ball sack, I’ve got myself a real fighter,” Ron pondered aloud, then went bright red, stammering out, “Did you hear that? I wasn’t meant to say that – not that there’s anything wrong with saying it, it’s completely true, I mean! You’re obviously a fighter, but challenging _You-Know-Who_ takes extra guts and obviously you’re also terribly smart and sometimes I wonder how you put up with a dimwit like me and you’ve also got nice skin and I don’t know why I’m still talking.”

The babbling abruptly cut short, leaving only a mortified silence.

Harry couldn’t bear to remove the hand clapped over his eyes.

“Oh my goodness,” said Hermione, and somehow her voice was blushing as much as her face surely was.

“Kiss and make up,” Harry offered blindly into the dark cover of his palm and fingers.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He heard Hermione standing up, all in a flurry. “There’s no need to make up or… or _kiss_ , Harry, I’m just going to go read over here.”

Only once the clomp of boots on dirt faded out of earshot did Harry un-blindfold himself and face Ron, who looked as if he’d rather eat a Flobberworm then meet Harry’s eye.

“Solid attempt, mate,” Harry said.

“Please don’t talk to me.”

“I’m serious, it was solid.” He commended himself for sniggering only a little. “Have you even asked her out yet?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” said Ron. “I’ve definitely nipped in a request for her hand in marriage between trekking through this hellhole and trying to prevent my face from burning clean off.”

Harry’s smirk grew only wider.

“I don’t recall ever saying anything about her hand in marriage.”

Ron jumped to his feet, simultaneously throwing his hat to the ground.

“ _Fuck_!”

Harry climbed to his feet, put his hands on Ron’s shoulders, lowered his eyelashes and purred, “ _You’ve got nice skin.”_

Ron shoved him back but at least he was laughing now.

It was, in Harry’s honest opinion, not a bad way to spend their last night.

**_***_ **

It was only midday when the handkerchief with the lettering _P.R.L._ dropped itself on the doorstep of a ramshackle tin shack in the shade of a ghostly gum.

The sun was beating down, a million sharp daggers on Harry’s skin despite the protective layers he wore, and never in his life had he been gladder to see proper shade.

They all paused a distance from the shack, watching the grimy smear of handkerchief from where they stood. The shack did not implode, no one made to exit it. There was a single window visible, curtains shuttering the interior from view. Not a soul stirred. It was impossible to tell whether the place was still inhabited. 

The tin walls were coated with rust and grime. There was a rickety rotary clothesline outside, its hinges creaking as it swayed into the lightest of breezes. It had not been used in many years. The garden, if that wasn’t too generous a term to use, was nothing but dry brown grass, choking in weeds.

It was a sorry state.

“At least the handkerchief looks like it belongs there,” remarked Ron after the three of them had stood there for a short while, regarding the rundown state of the property in dismay.

Harry snorted.

“Don’t be rude,” Hermione hissed. “Someone probably lives here. Now, Polyjuice, and Harry, your cloak.”

He was loath to put on another layer in this sweltering heat but did so obediently, vanishing from view as Hermione and Ron took swigs of Polyjuice Potion from their respective flasks, shuddering as they morphed into Poppy Walmsley and Frank Butler, a middle-aged woman with a hooked nose and a curly-haired youth of no more than their own age.

“You let me do the talking,” Hermione ordered Ron in an undertone. “Pretend I’m your mother if asked, and Harry, stay close but do _not_ reveal yourself. In fact, take some of your Polyjuice too, just in case.”

“I don’t need both,” Harry snapped back.

“On your own head,” she quipped back, taking _Tales from Beyond_ out of her pack and tucking it under an arm. “Now follow my lead.” 

She was trembling with barely contained anticipation as they advanced upon the door and it almost would have been funny if Harry’s own heart hadn’t been pounding like a drum in his ears, beating _this-is-it_ , _this-is-it_ , _this-is-it_ on repeat.

The door was also tin. It had once been painted green, but the colour had been abraded off in most places. It didn’t match the rest of the tin shack. A mismatched jigsaw piece in an otherwise complete puzzle.

Hermione raised a fist and rapped on the door smartly.

His pulse rushing in his head, Harry strained his ears for any movement on the other side of the door. But to no avail.

Seconds ticked by. His heart rate slowed, his senses no longer overwhelmed.

“There’s no one here,” he murmured, heart leaden, and began to tug the Invisibility Cloak off.

The green tin door squeaked open a fraction.

Hermione made a noise in the back of her throat, Ron flinched, Harry floundered to cover himself up again.

“What do you want?” a deep voice rumbled through the door, held barely ajar.

“Um.” Hermione, thrown off kilter, took a full second to attempt to pull her act together again. When she spoke again, her words still did not match that of a mature-aged woman. “Um, are you Hardwin Fjord, sir?”

Harry cringed. The voice of a schoolgirl.

A pause.

“Who’s asking?” It was a rough sort of voice, husky with age, and it occurred to Harry for a split second that this voice reminded him of someone. He was filled with the strangest sense of _je ne sais quoi_ , and it threatened to take his breath away with the intensity of it. 

“My name is Her– Poppy, Mr. Fjord,” Hermione jabbered, the thrill evident in her voice despite her slip-up. “This is my son, uh…”

“Frank,” Ron offered, much cleaner in his act than she was. “It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

If they could even call this a meeting – Hermione and Ron talking through the crack in the door.

“Hoppy, eh,” said Fjord, the crack widening a smidgeon more. His voice was significantly less belligerent than before, a note of curiosity to be heard.

“Hoppy, sir?” repeated Hermione in bewilderment.

“Your name.” The writer’s tone made it clear he was questioning her sanity. “I believe you stated your name to be Hoppy. Interesting name.”

Ron’s shoulders were trembling stiffly, as if he was withholding a sneeze.

“Oh yes, Hoppy,” said Hermione faintly. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Sounds more as though it belongs to a house-elf.”

Those words immediately grounded Hermione and her back straightened, her voice becoming iron.

“House-elves are misunderstood creatures deserving of so much more than the cards they have been dealt,” she blazoned, “and there is no dishonour in bearing the name of one.”

“Hm, right,” said Fjord, a smirk evident in his voice, and this time he opened the door entirely. His expression was one of a cat who had got the cream. “Two birds with one stone there – you’re wizarding folk and you’re not on the Dark side. So what exactly do you want from me?”

Hardwin Fjord must have been at least seventy years old. Beneath the lines of age and the drooping skin were hints of past beauty, and while his shoulder-length hair was mostly a grisly grey, there were still threads of auburn shot through.

He was dressed luxuriously in fluttery navy blue robes and he held his willowy form with grace. He looked extraordinarily like royalty for a person living in squalor, but upon glimpsing the inside of the shack over his shoulder, Harry immediately understood that the exterior of the house served as nothing more than the illusion of poverty.

This was a mansion in disguise. A long, marbled corridor sat behind the old writer, well-lit with golden candles mounted on the walls. A royal-blue Persian rug with tassels stretched down the length of the corridor, and a cool breeze swept outwards, touching Harry’s face, damp with sweat.

“We only wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Fjord, if you’re open to that,” said Hermione, and she held up _Tales from Beyond_.

Fjord stared at the cover for a very long moment. The hint of amusement he had worn on his face moments ago slid off and his black, black eyes shuttered. A chord struck in Harry’s heart, a chord that whispered the promise of ‘ _this is a man you once knew_ ’.

“I never should have written that book,” Fjord said, something akin to grief creeping into his voice. “It has brought nothing but misfortune to my doorstep.”

“But… it’s wonderful.” Hermione lowered the book, her head cocked questioningly to the side. “It’s critically acclaimed, it’s on its way to becoming a household name among the greats like _A History of Magic_ and–”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Fjord’s voice trembled with emotion, he braced himself against the doorframe to support his weight. “You _couldn_ ’t understand, you’re far too young to have seen enough of the world.”

“But I’m fifty-six,” said Hermione, not in the least bit convincing.

Fjord shook his head but there was no anger drawn into the lines of his face when he said, “Don’t take me as a fool. I am capable of recognizing a person uncomfortable in the skin granted to them by Polyjuice Potion. Now, I would ask you how you found me all the way from England, but I’d rather you leave me in peace.”

It was a dismissal if ever Harry had heard one.

“Please, we just want to know–”

“We’re not leaving until you–”

Hermione and Ron spoke rapidly in unison, all too aware that the elusive Hardwin Fjord was slipping through their fingers like smoke. But the more they tried to grab hold, the faster he slipped away, and it felt as though Harry’s lungs were filling with water. 

“I am tired of entertaining you,” he said, retreating into his lavish home and starting to close the door once more. “Kindly remove yourselves from my property.”

“ _Please_ ,” Hermione begged.

Taken aback by her plea, Fjord’s gaze flickered back up.

When they did, they seemed to latch onto Harry’s for a minute moment in time, green into black and black into green, eyes as dark as sin.

His lungs recoiled, no longer drowning in water, and it was as though he was drifting, weightless, the chords in his heart strumming the immortal words ‘ _at last_ ’.

As if in a dream, Harry’s fingers loosened around the Invisibility Cloak, releasing it, letting it slip and slide like silk, pooling in a glistening pond around his feet.

Fjord was frozen in the doorway, gaze locked onto Harry’s, his face was a mask of ice.

Hermione let loose a horrified squeak. Ron moved as if to leap in front of Harry, but Harry was already gliding past them and towards the wide-open doorway, that deliciously cool breeze from inside washing over him and drawing him a few steps closer home.

He flicked his wand at the ground idly, lazily, trapped in this slow-moving world. The handkerchief that had been their guide leapt to attention and, without breaking eye contact, Harry directed it to hover above their heads. The embroidered letters _P.R.L_. hung above them, an unapologetic banner of the past. 

The old man before him drew in a shaky breath, his eyes glossy and bright.

“Hardwin?” he asked, and his voice broke halfway through.

Gently, as if handling finely spun ice, Harry reached out a single hand to cradle his dear friend’s cheek.

“Peregrine,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably officially warn you that the updates from here on are going to be super irregular. Like, super irregular. :( But life calls, man.


End file.
